Who Are You?
by navigatio
Summary: If I weren't who you thought I was-If I weren't who I thought I was, would you still love me? A case Sherlock takes on because of boredom (it's only a three, for heaven's sake!) puts John's entire identity into question. Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred. Complete!
1. Missing, Presumed Drowned

**Author's Note: This story is set post-Fall, post-return, after all the loose ends are tied up (mostly) and Sherlock is back to being bored out of his mind again.**

* * *

Who Are You?

By Navigatio

Summary: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred. Slow build, so stick with me here, people.

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**Chapter 1: Missing, presumed drowned**

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In retrospect, Sherlock should never have taken the case. It was only a three, after all. If he hadn't been so bloody bored, he would have never even have responded to the email at all. If Mycroft hadn't been pestering him to investigate a case "For Queen and Country", he would never have invited this particular client over as an excuse to say no. And if John hadn't been so bloody _stubborn_. . . Well, that's really the end of the story. Let's start at the beginning, shall we?

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Date: 3 April, 2014

To: Sherlock Holmes

From: Anna Paddington

Subject: Please help us find our missing son!

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I am hoping you can help us find our missing son. He went missing on 5 August, 1974, while we were on family holiday in Abersoch, Wales. The police believe he drowned, but his body was never found. My husband and I are of the firm belief that he was kidnapped and is still alive. We have spent countless hours searching and have come up empty. Can you please investigate, since the police are determined not to do their jobs?

We are willing to pay handsomely for your time. Thank you,

Anna and Joseph Paddington

Sandford-on-Thames

Oxfordshire

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"I'm going out."

Sherlock stuck his head around the kitchen door to find John putting on his black jacket, the one with the shiny elbow patches that he seemed to adore and Sherlock detested. His flatmate paused with his hand on the doorknob and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Ah, that got your attention, then, did it?"

Sherlock went back to peering into his microscope. These bacteria cultures needed careful monitoring. "I'm busy with an experiment. It doesn't mean I'm not paying attention to you."

"Oh, so five minutes ago when I said I was going to the shops and did we need anything, you heard that?"

Sherlock made a non-committal noise. Ok, so perhaps he hadn't actually heard John say that, but it was pointless anyway. How was he to know if they "needed anything"? As long as they had tea, bread and jam, they had everything they needed, as far as Sherlock was concerned. And milk, of course. If John wanted more of a variety, then John was responsible for keeping track of it. Not that he actually planned to say that to John, not when he was using THAT voice, the voice that told Sherlock that a lecture was coming. When John used THAT voice, it was best to just stay quiet and hope it was over quickly. The more Sherlock tried to argue, the worse it would get.

Or perhaps if he came up with an idea of what they needed. . . "We're almost out of jam," he said helpfully, without looking up from the microscope.

Sherlock could see out of the corner of his eye that John had folded his arms. "Which kind do you want?"

"The raspberry kind. The one without the label."

"Without the label? They don't sell jam without a label."

"It was in a sort of roundish jar."

"Ah, the one with the red lid? That was my mum's jam, Sherlock. Home canned. She mailed it to me last week."

"Yes, that kind. I liked it."

"Sure, I'll just nip off to my mum's house in Carlisle and fetch us some, shall I?"

"Brilliant, thanks." Sherlock turned his attention back to his microscope. Damn, cell division had occurred whilst he was distracted. Why didn't John just go on and take care of the shopping already? Get out of his hair and let him think for once.

Oh, wait a minute. John couldn't leave now. Sherlock needed him. No, he would have to go later. "Hang on, I've got a client coming."

"When? Now?"

"I told them to come at 10. What time is it?"

"Sherlock, there is a clock on the stove. Why don't you just look at it?"

"I need to monitor these samples, John! This is important."

John heaved a dramatic sigh. "It's nearly 10. You're going to see them dressed like that?"

Sherlock looked down at himself. Pyjama bottoms, t-shirt, dressing gown, socks. He appeared to be adequately dressed. He didn't see a problem; he had met clients in less. Much less. He shrugged and said, "I'm fully dressed. This _is_ my second-best dressing gown. I need you to take notes."

Another dramatic sigh. "Well, I'm sorry, I've already made plans."

"It's just the shops. It can wait an hour."

John's hand was back on the doorknob. "No, I'm meeting Mary for coffee before shopping."

Now Sherlock really did look up. His eyes swept John up and down, observing, deducing. Hair combed (with PRODUCT in it?). Clean shirt under best jumper. Expensive jeans, meant to look distressed (Sherlock didn't see the point of that—if they were new, why make them look old?). Shoes freshly cleaned AND polished. Oh, John cared for this girl a bit more than the others. This was only their third date; well, fourth, if you count the one that Sherlock accidentally crashed when he was fresh back from the dead and didn't want to be alone. The fact that Mary had hung around after that, and was still willing to go on dates with John, meant that she felt the same way John did. Was that good or not good? He still hadn't decided on that one yet. More evidence required.

Sherlock's eyes finally scanned back up to John's face, where he observed his flatmate's longsuffering expression. "Finished?"

Sherlock huffed. It wasn't fair for John to deduce him while he was deducing John. "Yes," he said snippily. "Ring Mary and tell her you'll meet her later."

"No. She has to go to work at 11:30."

"John! I need you."

John opened the door. "You'll just have to get on without me. I'm sure you'll manage somehow," he said on his way out.

The door clicked shut behind him. Sherlock curled his lip at it. "I'm sure you'll manage," he mocked John's tone. "Oh, I'll manage fine." The door, of course, failed to respond.

Sherlock was turning back to his microscope when he heard voices outside the door. A woman, with a higher pitch and a flat, Yorkshire accent. "We're looking for Sherlock Holmes?" Then John, "Right up the stairs there."

Ah, his client. He knew by the accent that even though the woman's email had said Oxfordshire, she had been born and raised in Yorkshire, just outside of Leeds to be precise. Also that she was in her mid-sixties and had been educated at a state-funded school, so her family hadn't been wealthy.

There was a knock at the door, three quick raps that were followed almost immediately by three more. So she was impatient as well.

Sherlock sighed and pitched his samples into the bin. It was pointless to save them, as they needed constant monitoring. That was the part that John didn't understand—he needed John to interview these clients while Sherlock monitored the samples. Now his experiment was ruined because of John's selfishness. He was shirking his responsibilities for a _date_, of all things!

Sherlock considered ringing up Molly and telling her to come over and help out. She would come. She wouldn't consider a date or shopping more important than his need for an assistant. But on the other hand, he knew that Molly was just finishing a ten hour shift at the morgue and would want to go to bed. She tended to be grumpy when overtired, just one of the many things he had learnt about her whilst he was dead. A grumpy assistant would be worst than no assistant at all.

After a few extra seconds, spent washing his hands and changing from his second-best dressing gown into his best dressing gown, Sherlock answered the door. During those few extra seconds, the woman had knocked seven more times, each a little louder than the last. Sherlock had already decided he didn't like her before he had even seen her face.


	2. Meet the Parents

**Author's Note: This story is set post-Fall, post-return, after all the loose ends are tied up (mostly) and Sherlock is back to being bored out of his mind again.**

* * *

Who Are You?

By Navigatio

* * *

**Summary**: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred. Slow build, so stick with me here, people.

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**Chapter 2: Meet the parents**

Sherlock opened the door to find a slight, mousy-looking woman with sandy brown hair (obviously a home dye-job) tied back into a messy bun that looked unintentional but probably wasn't. She was dressed neatly but in an outdated style, in a knee-length dress with a lace collar and—shoulderpads? Ghastly. Her shoes were sensible, no heel, with scuff-marks on the toes, and her coat was frayed at the cuffs. Obviously a retired clerk, most likely a bank clerk. Not wealthy by any means, and yet she had offered to "pay handsomely" for his services.

"Sherlock Holmes?" she said. He nodded. "I'm Anna Paddington. I emailed you about our missing son." Yes, of course she had, Sherlock thought irritably. Why else would she have come? "This is my husband Joseph."

The man behind her nodded but said nothing. He was taller than his wife, but not by much. Broader around the midsection and shoulders, a former athlete far past his prime. Fine veins in his nose, eyes an indeterminate shade of blue, with a bit of redness in the whites. Hair faded blond, balding at the crown but hiding it with a combover. His scalp was freckled from past sun exposure. Hands large and gnarled. Outdoor work then. Railroad lineman, perhaps, judging by the groove on his right hand from heavy tools. Cheap trousers wrinkled from sitting, but only in the front, not on the sides. So he had been sitting on a flat seat, not a molded one such as in a car.

"Ah, yes, come on the train, have you then? But not the express. And then the tube. You're fortunate it wasn't too crowded at this time of day. Tourist season has just begun."

Mrs Paddington gaped at him for a moment, then smiled broadly. "Oh, I've heard you could do that. That was. . .amazing! Wasn't it dear?"

Again, the man said nothing, just eyed Sherlock skeptically. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mrs Paddington. Not the usual reaction to his deductions, but not exactly unwelcome. He tried to decide if her reaction was genuine. The smile certainly appeared to be real. Conclusion impossible without further evidence.

"Do come in," he said, stepping back and gesturing for them to enter. "Please be seated."

Mrs. Paddington entered and looked around the flat with interest, her eyes finally settling on the sofa. Sherlock followed her gaze—ah, the sofa was covered in newspapers. Right. Should probably move those. If John were here, he would have thought of that. Yet another reason he NEEDED John.

"Sorry, those were for a case." Sherlock started gathering newspapers into an untidy pile. "I'll just clear some room." He dropped the hastily compiled stack onto the floor next to the sofa, where it promptly unstacked itself again.

When enough space was clear, Mrs Paddington sat, primly, and gestured impatiently for her husband to join her. After a moment, during which he glanced at the armchair three times, he crossed to the sofa and dutifully sat next to his wife. Ah, Sherlock thought, he doesn't want to sit by her. Interesting. He would have to dig into that later, if there indeed was a later for this case.

Sherlock flopped into the armchair with his long legs stretched out and his feet on the coffee table. "So, Mr and Mrs Paddington, please tell me about your case. Start at the beginning, please. Leave out no details, even if you think they are unimportant." He knew he should offer tea first before starting in with the questions, but that would mean he would have to make some for them, and he just didn't _want_ to. He barely even made tea for himself; why would he make it for a couple of complete strangers? Especially when he didn't even know if their case was going to be interesting or not.

"Oh, all right. Are you going to . . . record the information?" Mrs Paddington said hesitantly.

Sherlock tapped his temple. "It will indeed be recorded, up here. I have no need for external recording devices."

"Ah, I see, of course. Well, let me think. . ." Mrs Paddington closed her eyes. "On the twenty-third of August, 1974, we had gone to the seashore in Abersoch, Wales, to have a family holiday. . ."

"When you say 'we'," Sherlock interrupted, "be more specific. Tell me exactly to whom you are referring."

"My husband, myself, and our three children. Our eldest, Sylvia, was ten. Adam was six, wasn't he, dear?"

Mr Paddington grunted, but didn't add anything.

"Yes, he must have been. And David, our baby, was three. This was our first family vacation since Adam was born. He was born with kidney disease, you see. His health was very precarious, so we tended to stay at home. However, we decided that the children needed a holiday, before. . .well, while Adam was healthy. Relatively speaking, that is. He never enjoyed full health, poor little chap."

Sherlock wondered how that sentence was meant to have ended, before she had revised it. Before what, exactly? But he didn't ask. Not yet. He filed the question away for further inquiry. There must have been a reason why she hadn't finished the sentence, and he knew that the reason was just as important as the information.

"So Adam needed constant care, of course. I couldn't leave his side. On the day David disappeared, the twenty-fifth of August, I entrusted his supervision to Sylvia."

"And you say she was ten years old at the time?"

"Yes, and quite unreliable."

"As ten year olds often are, Mrs Paddington."

"She knew I was occupied with Adam and I needed her help. But she went off and left David unattended."

Sherlock looked from the mother to the father. So why was the older sister supervising the boy? He thought he knew the answer to that one, but decided to ask anyway, just to see if they would tell the truth.

"Mr Paddington, why was your daughter responsible for the supervision of little David? Why were you not caring for him?"

Mr Paddington's head moved back slightly, eyes widening. Sherlock could make out a hint of perspiration starting on his forehead. So he had been startled by the question. "I—I . . ."

Sherlock just stared and refused to rescue him. Make him admit that he had been derelict in his duties as a father.

"I was—under the weather," he finished finally. Yes, definitely perspiring now.

"You were in fact intoxicated, were you not?"

"Well, I may have had a few. . ."

"You were intoxicated. Beer is your drink of choice, isn't it? How many did you have? Six?"

"How did you. . .?"

"The veins in your nose told me, Mr Paddington. And your pocketbook. A man of your means would choose beer, as it is less expensive than other alcoholic beverages. And for a man of your size, six beers would be the exact right amount to provide a pleasant level of intoxication without total incapacitation."

Mrs Paddington gave her husband a smug glance, then turned back to Sherlock with a smile. "That was truly brilliant! I just know you can help us, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock was about to say that he could do nothing of the sort, when his mobile buzzed in his pocket. Two short buzzes and a long buzz, then repeat. Mycroft's ringtone. Oh, God, not that again. If Sherlock had no case, Mycroft would continue to bully him until he agreed to help out with that dreadful Algerian affair. That simply wouldn't do.

He arranged his face into a semblance of a smile. "If I can't, then no one can, Mrs Paddington. Do go on with your story." The mobile gave one more pitiful buzz, then went still. He could only hope that Mycroft would give up now.

"Oh, right. Well, as I said, Sylvia was supervising David. He was an active boy who was fascinated with the sea. My husband and I were both occupied, as I said. David was playing with his sister near the water, and next I looked, they were both gone."

"And what did you do?"

"I started looking for them, of course. After a few minutes I found Sylvia playing with another girl about her age a ways down the beach. I asked her where David was, and she said he had been playing in the sand. She didn't know where he had gone."

"How much time had elapsed between the last time you saw him and when you discovered he was missing?"

"No more than. . . five or ten minutes, I'd say. Don't you think, Joe?"

"About that," he grunted reluctantly.

"And then what?" Sherlock prompted.

"We located a lifeguard. He radioed for help and they began searching for David. After about thirty minutes of searching, the police were called in to assist. They interviewed witnesses, and there was a woman who claimed to have seen a man carrying a boy matching David's description away from the sea. She didn't see where the man went, because at the time she wasn't thinking anything of it. My husband and I are convinced that this man kidnapped our David."

"Are you convinced of that, Mr Paddington?"

"Yes, I am," Mr Paddington responded immediately and adamantly. Sherlock was surprised. He had half expected the man to deny believing any such thing. "He took my boy."

"David was carrying a little firetruck, red with a yellow stripe. He never let it out of his sight. Always had it in his hand. We found it on the beach after he disappeared. He would never have let go of it willingly." Mrs Paddington leaned forward on the sofa. "The police concluded David had drowned, even though his body was never found. But we are sure he was kidnapped, Mr Holmes. That man took our little boy and we never got him back. We just want to know what happened to him."

The mobile in Sherlock's pocket gave one short buzz. New voicemail. Damnable Mycroft! "I'll take the case."

"You will? That's wonderful! Thank you so much, Mr Holmes!"

"One further question. . ."

"Yes?"

"How much longer did Adam live, after this incident?"

"Oh! He passed away about six months later, the poor little dear. The science of kidney transplantation was fairly new at that time, and we had hoped. . . but, well, a suitable donor was never located."

Ah, so that's what the "before" meant—before Adam passed away. They had known it was going to happen soon, then.

"I see. I should also like to interview your daughter."

Mr and Mrs Paddington exchanged a glance. There was some sort of meaning behind that glance, Sherlock decided. But damned if he knew what it was.

"She doesn't know anything." Mrs Paddington said quickly. "She was off playing with her friend."

"I would prefer to determine that for myself."

"Of course, you may talk to her if you think it will help. I just feel I should let you know that you probably won't. . . gain any useful information from her."

"Oh? And why not?"

"She has always been. . . flighty and irresponsible. She barely even remembers that she _had_ a brother. She doesn't know what happened to our David."

"I see." Although he didn't. "I would still like to speak with her. Does she have an email address?"

Another meaningful glance passed between husband and wife. "Sylvia? Oh, heavens no. She doesn't like technology, you see. I could have her phone you. . ."

"No need. I prefer not to talk on the phone. I will find her." He stood. "I'll be in touch."

Mrs Paddington stared up at him from the sofa. "Oh! Do you have everything you need from us?"

"Indeed. Good day."

Mr and Mrs Paddington both stood awkwardly to their feet and dutifully trooped toward the door, with Mrs Paddington shooting glances back at him. When she got to the door, she hesitated and turned with a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Yes, Mrs Paddington?"

She looked flustered but didn't say anything.

"You wanted to ask me a question. Fire away."

"Ah, well, you see, I was wondering. . . I had heard that you. . . well, that you were dead, you see, and so when I saw your website and it had been updated, well, I thought I would give it a try. And here you are! So. . ."

"Yes, Mrs Paddington. Here I am. My assistant or I will contact you when I have any information regarding your case. Good day." It was all he could do not to add little shooing motions to get them out the door. John would have been proud of his restraint. If only he had BEEN HERE TO SEE IT.

Once they were out and the door closed behind them, Sherlock flopped on the sofa and groaned. Oh, why had he agreed to take this case? It was a three at best. It would be nothing but legwork and drudgery, and the only conceivable outcome was that the boy had indeed drowned. He must have done.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and remembered immediately why he had decided to take the case. The screen read:

**Missed Call and voicemail**

**Overbearing Git**

He groaned to himself. Mycroft knew he didn't listen to voicemails; why did he insist on leaving them?

He sent a quick text. **Sorry, brother dear. Dreadfully busy with a case. Algeria will have to wait.**

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Like it? Hate it? Wonder when I'm going to get to the point? Leave me a review!


	3. No, I am not going to Abersoch!

Who Are You?

By Navigatio

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**Summary**: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred. Slow build, so stick with me here, people.

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**Ch 3: No, I am not going to Abersoch!**

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John was puttering about in the kitchen, considering what to have for an early lunch before work, when Sherlock swept in, coat on and buttoned, tying his scarf around his neck. Why he needed that bloody scarf John had no idea. It was springtime; half the sun-starved Londoners were already in shorts. More skin was showing on the streets these days than in the lads' mags.

"Sherlock, it's nearly 22 degrees. Why do you need a coat and scarf?"

Sherlock held out John's favorite jacket. "Then you won't need this hideous thing, will you?"

John opened the fridge for the fifth time, hoping this time it would hold something, anything, besides bread and a lump of moldy cheddar. "Why would I need my coat? I'm not going anywhere just yet."

"Yes, you're going to Abersoch with me. We leave in ten minutes."

"What?" John pulled his head out of the fridge and stared at Sherlock incredulously. "No, I'm not. I never said I was going to Abersoch. You never even asked me to go!"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, I did. Yesterday evening."

"Yesterday evening I was out with Mary."

"You were?"

"Yes. I left at six and didn't come home until nearly midnight."

Sherlock held out the coat again. "No matter. You're here now, so away we go."

John pulled the jacket out of Sherlock's hand and set it down on the back of the chair. "Yes, I'm here now, but I'm leaving for work in an hour, so I couldn't possibly go with you to Abersoch!"

"Call and cancel. It's just locum work."

John pressed his lips together in exasperation. Some things never changed. When Sherlock had come back from the dead, he had been different in a lot of ways; some welcome, some not. But this expecting John to drop everything and follow him to the ends of the Earth, that had not changed, and John was getting quite fed up with it. "I cannot 'call and cancel!' This is my job. I need my job."

Oh, God, not the look, that stubborn childish LOOK on Sherlock's face. He had about had it with the look. "Stop doing that, Sherlock."

"Stop doing what?"

"Pouting! Just stop it! Why do you want to go to Abersoch anyway? It's the arse end of nowhere this time of year."

"Abersoch is a popular tourist destination, with beautiful beaches and internationally recognized sailing waters."

"You sound like you're quoting from a tourist brochure."

"I am-well, from their website, that is."

"In the summer it's a popular tourist destination. In springtime it's a soggy, foggy mess. The weather's much nicer 'round here just now."

"It is where the central event in this case took place."

"Oh, your missing child case? Didn't you say that happened almost forty years ago? It's not like the kid is going to be standing on the beach waiting for you to come scoop him up. He wouldn't even be a kid anymore, if he is actually still alive, which I sincerely doubt."

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "Of course I don't expect to find him standing on the beach! Police records at the time were written out long-hand or typed, no computers. So the only copies of the incident report are to be found in the local police station."

"After forty years and no leads? How do you even know those records still exist?" John resigned himself to eating a cheese sandwich and started pulling the ingredients out of the fridge. No tomato even. At least there was butter, because he had bought some the other day at the shops.

John became aware that Sherlock had moved between him and the table, trying to keep his attention. "It's an open case, as the boy's body was never found. They keep the records indefinitely. Yard policy."

John skirted Sherlock and laid the components of the sandwich out on the table. "Have you actually spoken with the desk sergeant at the station in Abersoch?" They had no clean plates, of course, so John started assembling his sandwich on a napkin.

"No, they didn't respond to my email." That pout was back.

John scrounged in the drawer for a clean knife to spread the butter. "So you're just going to show up there? It's unlikely they'll have the file handy after forty years. Why don't you call ahead and let them know you're coming?"

Sherlock made a face. "I don't like talking on the phone."

"Oh, come now. It's not such an ordeal to make a phone call. You can manage. It'll save you hours of waiting once you get there." Giving up on finding a clean knife, John picked up a used one off the counter, sniffed it, and wiped it on the teatowel. Good enough.

"Why don't you call them? And then come with me?" Sherlock was again standing between him and the table. John gestured with the knife to get him to move out of the way, but Sherlock stood his ground, apparently oblivious.

"Why do you want me to come with you? I know you can look at the file by yourself. I won't notice anything you won't. You don't need me."

John studied his face for a moment. Sherlock didn't answer in words, but his face said it all. For all the man claimed to have no emotions, his face was quite expressive. "You don't want to be alone," John said with a tone of certainty. "Why not?"

Sherlock's eyes slid away. His lips were pressed together tightly and his brows were lowered. John knew that look. It was Sherlock being uncomfortable, Sherlock not wanting to admit that sentiment might be influencing his decisions, that he wanted something he knew to be illogical or unreasonable.

"Sherlock," John said carefully, "it's ok to admit you're lonely and want me around. I'll—I'll do my best to be there for you."

"John. . ."

"Yes, yes, I know. You don't need friends. Whatever." John sat down with a sigh and started eating his sandwich. It tasted like cardboard, but he didn't know if that was down to his feelings at the moment, or the fact that the sandwich was made with Tesco's cheap brown bread.

"I don't need friends, John."

"See, there you go."

"No, let me finish. I don't need friends because I've got you."

John grinned. "Yes, you do. And Lestrade. And Mrs Hudson. And Molly. Remember?"

"Yes, I remember. But they're not you."

"No, they're not. Look, I'll call the station in Abersoch and let them know you're coming, all right? But I really must go to work."

"What about tomorrow? Could you go with me then?"

"Sorry, tomorrow Mary and I have a lunch date."

"That could be canceled, right?"

"No."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Fine, then. I'll go alone." And he flounced out of the room.

John rolled his eyes as he stuffed the last bite of sandwich into his mouth. He had better get a move on if he was going to make that phone call before he had to leave for work.

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**I wrote this chapter just for you. I think it's only fair that you write a review for me now.**


	4. Lost in Wales

**Author's Note: This story is set post-Fall, post-return, after all the loose ends are tied up (mostly) and Sherlock is back to being bored out of his mind again.**

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**Who Are You?**

**By Navigatio**

Summary: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred. You're in luck, because things are starting to get interesting in chapter four!

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**Chapter 4: Lost in Wales**

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Molly was closing a Y-incision when her mobile buzzed on her desk: two short buzzes, so a text. That could wait. It would have to wait. She had a pretty good idea who it was anyway. John had to work today, so Sherlock was home alone, which meant he was bored out of his mind, which meant he texted Molly several dozen times a day. Hence the reason Molly now had an unlimited texting package added to her mobile plan.

The phone buzzed four more times before she got to a point where she could take a break. Each time was like having a mosquito in her ear. A very persistent mosquito. At least he didn't bite as much as he used to. That had been one change from his fall that she had come to appreciate. True, he was still arrogant, irrepressible Sherlock, but he now occasionally said "Thank you," and rarely, if ever, made flippant comments about her hair or makeup anymore. He even, occasionally, asked for her opinion and listened to her answers.

Molly stripped off her gloves and tossed them into the trash on her way to her desk. She picked up her mobile and thumbed through the texts. The first three were from Sherlock, as she had expected.

_Busy today? Want to take a drive?_

And the next, three minutes later,

_Come help me on a case and see the lovely Welsh shore at the same time! It's a two-fer!_

Less than two minutes after that,

_Molly? Are you coming or not?_

Molly sighed. Sherlock knew her work schedule. He should have known she was working. She returned her phone to the home screen and checked the time. Oh, she was supposed to have gotten off work nearly thirty minutes ago, which coincidentally was the exact time the first text arrived.

The fourth text was from John.

_Just to warn you, Sherlock might want you to go to Wales with him today._

And the fifth, also from John, arriving on the heels of the fourth:

_I think he's lonely. He won't admit it, of course._

Molly sighed. Of course Sherlock was lonely, she knew that already. It was obvious by the way he had followed her around like a puppy for the first month of his self-imposed exile, and then again every time he had come back to visit. If they were in the sitting room and she left to go into the kitchen, within two minutes he would find some reason to be in the kitchen too. And if she went back into the sitting room, he would soon do the same. It became a private game she played, moving from room to room and then seeing how long it took for him to join her. Fortunately he had never followed her into the loo, although several times he had stood just outside and carried on talking to her through the door.

She didn't have any illusions about it. She knew it was just him being lonely, missing John. It didn't mean that he missed HER, particularly. He just needed someone around to tell him how amazing he was on a regular basis.

Well, not today; as appealing as it sounded to be stuck in a car with Sherlock for over three hours, she had a dentist appointment and it wouldn't do to cancel. It had taken her forever to get the appointment, and if she canceled she would have to wait another month to get that crown replaced.

She texted John first.

**I know he's lonely, but I can't today. I'll set something up with him another day.**

And then Sherlock.

**Sorry, can't today. I'm busy.**

His answer was immediate.

_It's for a case. Tracking down evidence._

**I have an appointment.**

_Cancel it. I'll take you out to dinner after._

Oh, that was tempting, but her tooth was really hurting. There was no way she was going to wait another month to get it fixed.

**Sorry, I can't today, but I will take a rain check on dinner. I'm sure you can handle this on your own. I have faith in you. :-)**

There were no more texts from him that day.

Sherlock got lost on the way to Abersoch. He wasn't sure exactly how that had happened. One minute he was on the A497 headed west, and the next, he was passing a sign that said "Efailnewydd", and he knew that was too far north. He had missed a turn somewhere, but damned if he knew where. Bloody hell.

He blamed John, really. If John had been sitting in the passenger seat of the rented Bentley with a map-or better yet, driving while Sherlock took a kip-this never would have happened. He also blamed John because it was all his fault Sherlock hadn't been paying attention while he was driving. It was John's fault Sherlock had been thinking about Mary and trying to figure out if she was really good for them. She cooked, so that was a point in her favor. She didn't mind Sherlock tagging along on their dates, another good thing. But she took up a lot of John's time, which was distracting to say the least.

Sighing deeply, Sherlock took the exit to Efailnewydd. He pulled off the road and consulted the map on his phone. How humiliating, having to consult a map app like a mere mortal. It took a few minutes for him to figure out, on the tiny screen, that he had missed the exit for the A499. Backtracking was annoying, but after a few minutes he was on the right road again, and this time his thoughts drifted to the problem of Molly. She always seemed irritated with him lately and he didn't understand why. He did the same things he always had done, so why was her reaction different now? Most importantly, why did she now feel the need to say no to him so often? He didn't feel his requests were unreasonable. The odd body part now and then. A peek at a corpse who had died in an interesting way. An offer to accompany him on a case—Molly should have jumped at the chance, but instead she had turned him down. It was a change in her usual pattern, which was confusing and frustrating. Previously, before he had been dead, she would have been eager to do anything he asked, and if she balked, then a well-placed compliment would bring her around. Now, flattery got him nowhere. It didn't make sense.

Before Sherlock knew it, he had missed the next turn and was headed the wrong way again. Cursing himself for all kinds of a fool, he made an illegal u-turn and found the right street to take him to the tiny Abersoch police station.

On the way up the front steps of the building, he consulted the text John had sent earlier.

_Ask for Inspector Carew. He's been on the force there for 45 years. And BE NICE! They won't help you if you're rude!_

He made a face at the phone and tucked it in his pocket. He already knew to ask nicely; he didn't need John to tell him that.

The young constable at the front desk looked up as he entered. Sherlock deduced him automatically: married young, father of two judging by the spit-up and biscuit crumbs on his sleeve, loyal but not overly bright.

The constable grinned at him, revealing a mouthful of perfectly straight teeth. The younger generation didn't know how good they had it, Sherlock thought, then followed it up immediately with Damnit, I'm old. When did that happen?

"Ah, you must be Sherlock Holmes. Heard you were coming."

Sherlock's estimation of the man's intelligence racheted up a notch. "Ah, yes, you must have spoken with my . . ." What, my John? My partner? ". . . associate."

"He called this morning, Sir. You'll want to speak with Inspector Carew. He's just in the back. I'll call him in, shall I? If you'll have a seat, Sir. . ."

"Please do." Sherlock declined to sit, but he did unwind his scarf and remove his gloves, and tuck them into his coat pockets. He wasn't quite ready to remove his coat yet, even though the room was warm. While London had been enjoying a fine spring day, Abersoch was apparently still in the throes of winter, with an icy, soaking mist permeating the air. The arse end of nowhere indeed.

It wasn't long before Inspector Carew entered: a short, stout man with a round face and an impressive moustache. His uniform was worn but tidy, a bit snug about the midsection. He looked to be in his mid-sixties, so he must be near retirement age, but still had a spring in his step. One of those old codgers who keep going and going, then. Been in the same place, same job for forty-five years, so he was steady and stable, dependable. Or stodgy, depending on how one looked at it. His smile looked genuine if a bit forced. Oh, family trouble?

"Mr Holmes, I'm Inspector Rhys Carew. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Sherlock replied. Don't mention his wayward daughter, he reminded himself. Be NICE. Don't disappoint John.

"Your secretary mentioned you were looking into the disappearance of the Paddington boy?" Secretary? Is that what John was calling himself now? That was a bit of a demotion, wasn't it? "Haven't heard from the Paddingtons in a couple of years now. Thought perhaps they had given up the search finally." Inspector Carew led the way through a half-door into the back section of the station.

"Apparently not," Sherlock murmured, still contemplating the mystery of why John would consider himself Sherlock's secretary, of all things. He wasn't a secretary. Why not just say Friend? "Do you hear from them frequently?"

"Oh, they call every couple of years. Asking questions, following up on ideas they've come up with."

"They both call, or just the wife?"

"Mostly the wife. She's the talker. Although one time the husband did call. Gave me rats, he did. Said I wasn't doing my bit to find his boy. I think he was a bit wedi meddwi, if you catch my meaning." The inspector made a drinking motion with his thumb to his lip. Ah. "Not there's any job to do, mind. No new leads since the boy disappeared. Determination was drowning, despite not finding the body. Poor little chap. Our local doc issued a death certificate about a month after the disappearance."

"So I gather. May I see the file?"

"Certainly. It's considered cold case, so it's kept in the basement. This way, Sir. Mind your head."

The inspector led the way to a door in the back that opened onto a set of stairs leading down. Even after he had flicked the light on, it looked gloomy and damp. Probably spider-infested as well. Ugh. Low beams crossed just at Sherlock's head-height. The inspector easily passed under them, but Sherlock had to duck his head uncomfortably to avoid a concussion.

"Tough luck for the town the same thing happening two years in a row," Inspector Carew called over his shoulder on the way down the stairs.

Sherlock lost concentration for a second and nearly bashed his head on a beam. "Oh?" Finally, something interesting. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the previous year another little boy disappeared. The Watson boy. Same weekend, same circumstances."

This time Sherlock did hit his head and nearly fell. Catching himself on the railing, he put a hand to his forehead but encountered no blood. "Who?" he demanded.

"The Watson boy. Johnny. Two years old. Two cases in a row—of course there was rampant speculation 'round town, Sir, as you can imagine. Quite a blow to our little town, dependent as we are on tourism." The inspector reached the bottom landing and flicked on another light, then looked back curiously at Sherlock, who had stopped on the stairs with his hand to his head.

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	5. John HAMISH Watson?

**Who Are You?**

**By Navigatio**

Summary: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred.

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**Chapter 5: John HAMISH Watson?**

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"Are you all right, Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, yes, fine. Is that file down here as well? The. . . Watson case?"

"It is. I'll have Patricia pull it for you, Sir, if you like?"

"Yes, please."

"Right, will do." Inspector started down one of the aisles filled with filing cabinets and tall shelves, and Sherlock pulled himself together to follow. He stopped at a little table in the middle of a row, where there was a gray file box laid out along with a notepad and pen. "Here is the Paddington file. I had Patricia lay it out for you. I'll just go and have her fetch the other one as well."

"Thank you," Sherlock said distractedly. It had to be a coincidence, of course. There must be more than one John Watson in the UK. It wasn't an uncommon name, after all.

Sherlock sat down and pulled out his mobile.

**Were you ever in Abersoch?**

As he was opening the box, John's reply came through. _Maybe once, when I was a kid. Don't remember it. Why?_

Sherlock didn't answer. What could he say, anyway? Did you ever turn up missing? Drown at sea? Hardly.

He pulled the file folder out of the box first. It was worn from frequent handling, soft on the corners, with holes where staples had been removed and replaced over the years. These clues noted, Sherlock squared up the file in the center of the table and flipped it open. A faded photo was stapled to the inside cover of the file. A small boy standing in front of a yellow house. The photo was slightly out of focus, but Sherlock could make out sandy blond hair and dark bluish eyes like the father's. The boy wasn't smiling.

The police report filed at the time of the disappearance gave a basic description. It mentioned the smell of alcohol on the father and empty beer cans (six of them, as Sherlock had already deduced). Description of the mother and two older siblings, with a mention of the older brother being poorly. It outlined the mother's version of events surrounding the boy's disappearance, which matched almost exactly the one Mrs Paddington had told Sherlock the previous week. She had obviously rehearsed and retold this story many times for it to stay in her memory so precisely.

Behind the police report, there was a handwritten witness statement from one Soircha Jones-Kippler, of Dunfermline, Scotland, which read as follows:

**I seen a wee lad, with blond hair and a blu swiming trunks, splashing about in the sea. A man about aged 30 tall with brown hair, ran out and feched the boy out the sea and up the beach roundabout 12:30. I remember cause we had just finished our lunch and was setling in for a kip. I didnt see where, he went next cause I fellt asleep.**

Sherlock turned the form over, hoping for more information, but it was blank on the back. Useless. Some semi-illiterate woman had seen a man carrying a small blond boy out of the surf. It could have been anyone. And yet those few lines had given these parents false hope for years.

Sherlock set the dubious statement aside and picked up the next paper in the file. A death certificate, issued on 25 September, 1974, one month after the boy's disappearance. The boy's date of birth was given as 12 August, 1971, so he disappeared just a few weeks after his third birthday. Date of death: August 25, 1974. Cause of death was listed as drowning, although it was noted that the body was not recovered.

Behind the death certificate were several other reports detailing calls from the Paddingtons at intervals over the years. Most of the calls were clustered around the anniversaries of the disappearance. The most recent call had been almost five years ago. According to the notes, the calls always ended with accusations from the Paddingtons that the police weren't doing their jobs, that there were leads that had not been properly investigated. Which leads exactly? Sherlock wondered. There didn't seem to be any.

Sherlock closed the file and looked in the box again to find a tiny green nylon jacket, presumably belonging to the missing boy. The jacket had an embroidered teddy bear on the left front, and on the tag was written "Adam P" in black laundry marker. So, a hand-me-down, obviously.

When Sherlock pulled the jacket out of the box, a small red and yellow fire truck fell out onto the table. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. On the bottom, the letters DP had been scratched into the paint. Ah, the fire truck that had been found on the beach.

Sherlock carefully folded the jacket and replaced it in the box, with the fire truck resting on top, and finally the file. There was nothing earthshaking in the contents, nothing that gave him even the slightest clue of where the boy might have gone, if not drowned. That his body had never been found was no great mystery. The sea was frequently reluctant to give up her dead.

Just as he replaced the lid on the box, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Not Inspector Carew—the tread was lighter. A woman, judging by the rustling of clothing and faint hint of perfume. This must be Patricia, then, come to find the other file for him.

"Mr. Holmes?" So Patricia was an older woman, mid-fifties, Londoner by birth, judging by her accent. As she came around the corner, Sherlock deduced her automatically. Graying hair, neatly done up in a bun. Sensible skirt in dark blue. No-nonsense hosiery. Shirt perfectly pressed, with nametag precisely placed. Not a spot on her. Perfectionist. Used to getting her own way, everyone else falling into line, despite her petite frame.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. Inspector Carew said you were wanting the Watson file." Every syllable precise.

"Yes, please."

"Right, just a moment." She disappeared around the corner, and a few seconds later reappeared with another gray box in her hands. "Here we are. Just leave them both on the table when you've finished. I'll put them away later."

Once she had left, Sherlock sat staring at the gray box for a long time. In that box was information that could—possibly—change his relationship with John forever. As long as the lid was on, he could remain safely ignorant. He didn't have to deal with the possibility that—what? That John was lying to him about his identity? That he had stolen the name of a dead boy?

Finally his curiosity won out and he opened the lid. Inside the box he found a small sandal, brown with sturdy leather straps and a rusted metal buckle. Grains of sand were still caught in the treads. The sole was barely worn. A boy's sandal, obviously only used a few times. This was not a family that spent frequent holidays at the beach. Perhaps the sandals had been purchased specially for this trip. Where was its mate? Presumably lost with its owner, never to be seen again.

Sherlock carefully took the sandal out of the box and laid it on the far edge of the table. He would examine it further, if necessary, if he decided it was pertinent.

The only other thing in the box was a file folder: slim, still in good shape, obviously been barely touched in the past forty-odd years. The label on the tab said "WATSON, J." in an old-fashioned type-face. Sherlock concluded this was not a case that warranted frequent review. Either the parents did not care what happened to their son (unlikely, but possible), or they had accepted the inevitable: that he had drowned in the sea.

Right, time to know the truth. Sherlock opened the file and was confronted with a photo stapled inside the front cover. A very small boy, standing on a beach with the sea behind him, a red bucket and shovel in his hands. Brown eyes sparkling, wide grin on his face, straight blond hair blown by the wind. He was wearing blue swimming trunks, green t-shirt and brown sandals, which Sherlock assumed to be the very same as the one in the box. On the back of the photo someone had written the date in pencil. August 24, 1973. This photo had been taken just before the boy disappeared: the same bank holiday as David Paddington, only a year earlier. The boy bore a superficial resemblance to David as well; both had blond hair and pale skin, similar height and build. Did that mean anything? Sherlock didn't know.

The police report was on top, so Sherlock examined it first. The story was similar to David's as well: parents distracted setting out a picnic lunch. They last saw the boy playing on the beach, and when they looked back, he was gone. There were no witness statements for this one; no one had seen any trace of the boy after that moment.

Sherlock flipped the police report over out of the way, and discovered a death certificate underneath.

**Name: John Hamish Watson**. (Hamish? That was definitely John's middle name)

**Date of birth: September 12, 1971** (Yes, that was John's birthdate as well)

**Place of birth: Slough, England** (Slough? John's parents lived in Carlisle, but where had he been born? Sherlock didn't know—unforgiveable gap in information, how could he not know that?)

Before he even knew what he was doing, Sherlock's phone was in his hand and he was texting John. **Where were you born?** Then he just sat and stared at the phone, waiting for the response. Over two minutes later, just as he was about to text again, the reply finally came. _Slough. Why?_

Sherlock could feel his heart thudding a bit faster in his chest. What were the chances that some other John Hamish Watson had been born on September 12, 1971, in Slough? He kept scanning the form, hardly knowing what he was seeing.

**Parents' names: Henry Philip Watson, Leonora Davis Watson**

Sherlock texted John again_. _**What are your parents' names?**

This time the response was immediate. _Henry and Nora Watson._

Sherlock was feeling light-headed now. On the periphery of his awareness, he realized his brain was attempting to calculate the possibility that this was all just an amazing coincidence. Somewhere out there was another John Hamish Watson who had died in childhood, who happened to have the same birthdate, and whose parents had the same names. . .what were the chances?

His phone buzzed again. _Why do you want to know? Are you hacking into my bank account?_

And then again seconds later, while he was still processing_. You should know there's no money in it. I've spent it all buying milk for you._

Still calculating odds. Another buzz. _Sherlock_?

Distracted, Sherlock texted back while the mental processing continued. **Don't be ridiculous. I already know how to get into your bank account.**

Processing. Processing. Yet another buzz. _Of course you do. Maybe you could transfer some money in._

Sherlock stuffed the distracting phone into his coat pocket. Think, think! The odds for two people having the same birthday were one in 16, of course. Odds for having the same name and same birthday were lower, but John's name was a fairly common one, so not impossible. But having the same name, birthdate, place of birth, and parents' names? The odds against that were astronomical, weren't they? Only possible conclusion: The John Watson in this file was the same John Watson that he called friend. But that didn't make any sense. If John Watson had died at age two, who was living in his flat? Sherlock would have known if John were deceiving him, right? That was his job, to know these things. He took great pride in being able to deduce when people were lying. He was sure John was honest. So why did he have the identity of a dead boy? Oh, this was a puzzle, all right. But instead of the familiar feeling of excitement at a good mystery, all Sherlock felt was a slight headache, along with a pang of anxiety and dread. The way he had as a child when he realized he had said the wrong thing, AGAIN, and was going to be spending the night kneeling on the freezing basement stairs with his hands behind his head.

Chewing on his lip, Sherlock pulled his phone out again and began taking photos, of the sandal, the police report and death certificate for John Watson, first; then, oh, yes, should probably do the same for David Paddington as well, since that was the case he was meant to be investigating here.

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	6. Sherlock has a few theories (of course)

**Who Are You?**

**By Navigatio**

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Summary: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred.

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**Chapter 6: Sherlock has a few theories (of course)**

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Sherlock sat in John's chair, with a file folder on his lap which contained printouts of the photos he had taken of the information in the Watson file: the police report, the death certificate, the tiny sandal. Sherlock had made the printouts thinking he would show them to John when he got home, but John wasn't home. That was probably good. Sherlock hadn't exactly worked out what he was going to say anyway. So, John, if that is your REAL name. . . No, definitely not good.

Tossing the Watson file on the table with the Paddington file, Sherlock levered himself out of the chair and began to pace. What time did John get off work? He didn't know, but he knew it should be soon. It had been over eight hours since his shift began, so it _must_ be over soon. Right? Where was John even working these days, anyway? He supposed John must have told him at some point, but he hadn't held onto the information. He must have thought it unimportant. Well, now it seemed quite important indeed.

His mobile buzzed in the pocket of his dressing gown, two short buzzes. Ah, that was John then. He quickly dug the phone out and flipped the screen on.

_Going over to Mary's tonight. Be home late or possibly tomorrow. There's spaghetti in the fridge if you get hungry. _

**Late? How late?**

_I don't know. Why do you care? _

Oh, that was probably a bit not good. A bit too needy. Damage control mode engaged**. Just wondering.**

_Do you need something?_

**No, nothing. I'll see you later.**

_Ok. I'll try not to make it too late._

**Stay as late as you like. I don't care.**

_Riiiight._

Sherlock switched off his phone and tossed it, none too gently, onto the coffee table, where it promptly skidded off and landed next to the untidy stack of newspapers. Newspapers that had been sitting, untouched, next to the sofa for over a week now. The little voice in his head in Sherlock's head (that sounded suspiciously like pissed-off John) suggested that perhaps he should pick up the newspapers, but he decided it was still too much trouble. Maybe tomorrow.

He resumed pacing, back and forth in his usual track across the sitting room from the violin stand by the window to the sofa and back again. He knew his pacing drove John bonkers, but it helped him think and, well, John wasn't here to complain.

So, think! What were the possibilities? There had to be an explanation of how John happened to have a death certificate in his name sitting in a file in Abersoch, Wales. So what could have happened? He had some theories, of course. He always had theories.

1. John was really someone else, some Not-John, who took the identity of a person he knew to be dead, in order to conceal his real identity (Impossible! The John he knew, his friend, wouldn't do that. . . would he? Verdict: impossible. However, a small niggling doubt remained).

2. John was the real John Watson, and he had been found later but his parents had never reported his return to the police, so the death certificate was still in the file (but why wouldn't the Inspector know about it? He seemed to remember the case quite well. Wouldn't he have known if the boy had been found? Verdict: possible but not likely).

3. Someone, possibly John's parents, had—had what? Found another child and said he was their dead son? Adopted a child and lied to him about who he was? (Maybe. Sherlock hadn't met John's parents, so he didn't know what they were capable of. Verdict: likely? The most likely theory he had so far)

4. An alien had abducted John and replaced him with. . .(Just stop there. Preposterous. Completely ridiculous).

5. The most farfetched of all: John was really dead, and Sherlock had been living with a ghost for the past several years. Sherlock rejected this theory out of hand. He had touched John, more than once, and he trusted his own senses. He had observed other people interacting with John. So unless there was some sort of mass hysteria in effect, the John Watson he knew was definitely alive. (Verdict: Impossible)

Sherlock flopped onto the couch with a heavy sigh. This was confusing. He hated confusing. He liked a good puzzle, but he didn't like there to not be enough clues to come up with the answer. God, he would kill for a cigarette right now.

After a few moments of lying on the sofa, he realized that the flat was very quiet. Too quiet. Even the usual traffic noise of a Tuesday evening was muted. The only sounds he could hear were the clock ticking and the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. Far too quiet. When people were around, it often felt too loud to think, as if they were invading his brain and crowding out all his thoughts with their noise. But this—this was an invasion of another sort. Even though he was surrounded by silence, it was noisy in his head, competing theories all clamoring for attention at once, old doubts resurfacing and nagging at him. It _hurt_.

He needed a distraction from the noise in his head. Molly. Molly was a good distraction. At the very least he could flirt with her and watch her blush. That was always amusing.

Sherlock felt around on the floor and came up with his mobile. Before he could change his mind, he dashed off a text to Molly.

**I'm bored. Come over.**

After he had sent it, Sherlock remembered that Molly didn't seem to be doing much blushing these days. When he started in on her lately, after he came back from the dead, she usually only rolled her eyes and chuckled under her breath, which was somewhat less amusing and made him worry that she knew something he didn't. It made his stomach uneasy, and he was already feeling uneasy enough wondering what was up with John. But too late to take back the invitation now.

His phone buzzed, one short and one long. _Sorry, can't tonight. How about tomorrow?_

Sherlock frowned at his phone. Molly had actually turned him down twice in one day? Impossible. Well, not technically impossible, since it had actually happened, but. . .impossible! He lay back on the sofa to contemplate this new problem. After an hour of contemplation, the only conclusion he had come to was that women were completely incomprehensible, which was exactly where he had been when he had started. How dull.

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**Author's note: hello, reader, if you're enjoying this story (and if you've read all the way to the end of chapter six, you must be enjoying it at least a little), I'd love it if you'd leave a review. More reviews=more readers=happy writer.**

**Even though this chapter is short, the story is shaping up to be quite long-over twenty chapters so far and I haven't finished writing the ending yet. So if you review or follow, I will be encouraged to finish it up and post it more quickly.**


	7. Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey

**Who Are You?**

**By Navigatio**

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Summary: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred.

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**Chapter 7: wakey, wakey; eggs and bakey**

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Sherlock woke on the sofa, covered in an orange shock blanket, to the first light of dawn peeking in the window. Since he hadn't been covered in the blanket when he had fallen asleep still contemplating why all of his so-called friends had gone completely mental, he deduced that John had come home late and not woken him up. Silence in the kitchen, so John was still asleep. Probably not a good idea to wake him to ask something along the lines of "Are you dead?" Definitely not good, that.

So now, to the problem of how to talk to John about what he had found in Abersoch. First, coffee. John would appreciate coffee first thing in the morning after a late night.

Sherlock pushed himself off the couch and stumbled to the kitchen, blanket still wrapped tightly around his shoulders. The flat was chilly. Ordinarily he would march right over to the thermostat and turn up the furnace a degree or two without even hesitating. But John liked it a bit cooler, and Sherlock had been attempting to accommodate him, because really it was John's flat alone for almost three years, once Mrs Hudson had coaxed him back. Sherlock felt just enough guilt about that fact to make him leave the thermostat alone occasionally. Not quite enough guilt to forgo grumbling about it under his breath, however. He hated being cold. _Hated_ it.

He started the coffeemaker percolating, and then looked around the kitchen. Breakfast. Yes, he should make breakfast. Full stomach = happy John. John always processed information better after a good meal. Fortunately, since John had gone to the shops recently, they had just what he needed.

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John woke to the smell of bacon. Bacon? Who was cooking bacon? Had Mrs Hudson come home from her nephew's house already? He had thought she was going to be gone until Friday at the earliest.

He grabbed a jumper and headed down the stairs. By the third stair he could smell eggs as well, scrambled. Mrs Hudson definitely must be home early. As he reached the landing, he paused and pulled the jumper on. It was a bit chilly down here, but he didn't mind. Why waste money on heating oil when you could just put on a jumper?

He noted that Sherlock was no longer on the sofa. Maybe he had gotten up in the night and toddled off to bed. John was fairly sure he hadn't woken Sherlock up when he came in last night—for someone who slept so little, once Sherlock was asleep, he slept like the dead. Once he had even slept through a fire alarm and hadn't woken until John had shaken him hard enough to rattle his teeth.

John strode into the kitchen, and the words, "Hello Mrs Hudson" died on his lips when he saw Sherlock, still wearing his trousers, with an orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders and hair gone wild, pouring coffee into John's favorite mug. On the table was a plate loaded with eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit.

John paused on the threshold, still adjusting the sleeves on his jumper. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Making breakfast," Sherlock responded with an obviously fake smile.

John squinted at his flatmate. "I can see that. Why? And did you leave any coffee for me?"

Sherlock held out the mug. "This is for you. No sugar this time."

"Ok," John said skeptically, taking the mug. "Not drugged either, I hope."

"Not drugged," Sherlock confirmed. "Sit down and eat."

"This is for me as well?" John gestured at the laden plate on the table.

"Yes. And this." Sherlock held out the jar of jam. John's mum's jam, the kind that Sherlock had said he actually liked. The almost empty jar that had gone missing from the fridge several days ago. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who shrugged. "I thought it might be difficult to get more, so I've been rationing it. Please, sit down."

"Ah." John sat and picked up his fork. It was unusual for Sherlock to make him breakfast, that was for certain, but he was hungry enough to write it off as just another Sherlockian quirk. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

Sherlock held up his cup of coffee. "Not hungry," he responded with a shrug.

"Why did you make me breakfast?"

"I thought you might be hungry. How was your date?"

John stopped with a bite halfway to his mouth. What the hell? Sherlock never asked about his dates, or really even made small talk at all, not unless he wanted something. So what did he want?

John stuffed the forkful into his mouth and contemplated Sherlock while he chewed. Okay, he had gotten up early and made breakfast, something that never happened. His hair was a mess—that meant he had been pulling on it again, which he did when he was worried or upset. Dark circles under the eyes, so he had slept poorly. He was now prowling anxiously around the kitchen, not waiting for a response to his question, so he hadn't really expected John to answer; he had just asked because he thought it was what John would want him to say. Something was definitely going on here, and John honestly had no clue what it could be.

"Did. . . Mycroft call you?" he ventured after a moment.

"No, why would Mycroft call?"

"No reason. I'm just wondering what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. What makes you think something's wrong?" Sherlock put his coffee down and started washing up. Yes, something was definitely wrong. Sherlock never did the washing up.

"Oh, no reason," John said with a smirk.

"Eat your breakfast before it gets cold," Sherlock responded without turning around.

"Ok, ok."

The second John was finished eating, Sherlock took his plate away and started wiping down the table with a sponge that looked like it should be in the bin. Crumbs hit the floor. John pushed back his chair and was about to get up when he felt Sherlock's hand, still damp from the sink, pressing down on his shoulder

"No, sit down."

"Oookay." John still had no idea what was going on, but Sherlock often did odd things, so nothing surprised him anymore. He was curious, but he figured he would have that curiosity satisfied more quickly if he just sat and said nothing. Sherlock finished washing the table and dried it, then disappeared into the sitting room for a moment, and when he came back, he was carrying a file folder. No, two file folders, which he quickly put behind his back when he saw John looking at them.

"I don't want you to be upset," Sherlock said.

"Oh? What did you do now? Burn one of my jumpers? Turn the thermostat up to 22? Experiment on those eggs?

"John. . ."

"Shoot the telly because you disagreed with a news presenter? Kill a man just to watch him die?"

"John, shut up."

"Shut up? Why? Come on, Sherlock, out with it."

Sherlock started pacing again. John frowned at him, perplexed. He was getting a bit worried, frankly. What had Sherlock done that he didn't want to tell John about? It must be something big to warrant a full English breakfast AND coffee.

Finally, Sherlock swooped back over to the table, laid the closed file folder in front of John, and took a step back, arms folded tightly. John eyed the folder, then looked up at Sherlock, eyebrows raised. What was he expected to do? Was he meant to open it?

John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock was sort of a twitchy mess just now, rubbing his face and neck, not quite meeting John's gaze. Finally he darted to the table, grabbed the top file, and pulled out a piece of paper, which he held just out of John's reach.

"Don't get upset."

"What is that?" John asked.

"You're going to get upset. I want you to promise me you'll stay calm."

"I can't promise if I don't know what you're on about, now can I?"

Sherlock started pacing the small kitchen again, the paper fluttering in his hand. John just sat and watched him with growing concern. What the hell was on that paper, and why did Sherlock think it would upset him so much?

"Come on, Sherlock, let's have it."

"Fine." Sherlock set the paper carefully in front of John and then yanked out the chair opposite him, sat and stared at John's face intently. Ok. So. . .?

"Read it."

"Ok. All right. I'll read it. Hang on."

John broke the awkward eye contact and dropped his gaze to the paper in front of him. It looked like a poor copy of some official document. He read the top line.

**Certified Copy of Entry of Death.**

Who had died? He didn't know anyone who had died lately, except Sherlock himself, of course, and he already knew the full story behind that; well, as much as he was ever likely to know anyway. Why did Sherlock think he would get upset about that? He kept reading.

**Name of Deceased: John Hamish Watson**

What? Just—what? He was reading faster now. **Date of death: August 24, 1973**. **Age at death: 23 months. Parents' names. . .**

"Sherlock, what. . .What is this?"

"You tell me."

John looked up, startled. "What? I mean. . . what?" Sherlock was still watching him intently. That deducing face.

He quickly scanned the rest of the document. "This is. . . this is all my information."

"Yes."

"It says I died before my second birthday."

"I know."

"But—but obviously. . ." John trailed off, not sure of what to say. Obviously this couldn't be a real death certificate, but Sherlock certainly seemed to think it was. "Where did you find this?"

"Abersoch police station."

"Abersoch? Is that why you asked if I had ever been there?"

No answer. John flipped the death certificate over to see if there was anything on the back (there wasn't), and pushed it out of the way so he could look in the rest of the file. He pulled out the police report and scanned it. Sherlock sat silently staring at him the whole time, which was making him quite uncomfortable. What was Sherlock thinking, anyway? That he. . .that he somehow KNEW about this?

"What is this about? What does this mean?"

Sherlock didn't answer. After a quick glance at him, just enough to see his deducing face was still firmly in place, John set the police report aside and spotted a photograph. A small boy with brown eyes and blond hair, standing on a beach.

"That's not me. This isn't me." He waved the photo at Sherlock.

"I know that's not you. That's Johnny Watson. And he's dead," Sherlock said flatly.

"No, I'm John Watson. The police report says the body was never found. I don't remember going missing, but I must have been. . . found later. There must be more to the story, more than was in the report."

"The Inspector said John Watson was never found." Still that flat voice. What on earth did Sherlock expect him to say? Obviously he hadn't died by drowning before he was two!

In desperation, John quickly paged through the rest of the papers in the file, finding nothing that shed any light on what might have happened, nothing to explain this bizarre turn of events. Frustrated, he shoved the folder out of the way and opened the other file, the one that had been underneath it. He flipped through the contents quickly, just enough to realize this must be the case Sherlock had been investigating, and seized upon a photograph. A small boy standing in front of a yellow house. AHA!

"Oh, Sherlock, this is me," he cried in relief.

"What?"

"This is me! You've got the photos switched!"

"No I haven't." Now Sherlock sounded confused. But it was obvious to John. Sherlock had put the photos in the wrong file, of course. That was all. "No, the photos were in the right files."

"Yes, obviously! This one is me, see?" He held the photo up next to his face. "See? This is me. I've never seen this photo before, but I'm sure this is me. See the mouth?"

Sherlock was staring, openmouthed, eyes quickly snapping back and forth between John's face and the picture. "Oh. . ."

* * *

More to come. Next chapter should be posted next Tuesday.


	8. A Matter of Perspective

**Author's note: I know I said the next chapter would be up on Tuesday, but this one was short, so I thought I'd throw it in as a bonus. Ch 9 will be posted on Tuesday.**

* * *

**Who Are You?**

**By Navigatio**

* * *

Summary: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred.

* * *

**Chapter 8: A Matter of Perspective**

John bit his lip. "Sherlock? What's wrong?" Didn't he know this meant everything was all right? There had to be some simple solution. "It's all sorted. It was a mistake, that's all. You've just swapped the photos. This one belongs in the John Watson file, and the other one must be from your missing kid case."

Sherlock got up slowly and walked out of the kitchen without a word, hand on his forehead. John jumped up and followed.

"Sherlock. . .?"

The detective turned around and stood staring at John with a curious expression on his face. "It's like one of those children's books."

"What books? What are you talking about?"

"One of those books where, when you turn the picture upside down, it becomes something different."

"I have no idea what you mean. How is this like a children's book?"

"No," Sherlock said simply, that strange expression still fixed on his face.

"No? No what?"

"No, that is not a photo of John Watson. That is a photo of . . . David Paddington."

"No, It's me. I don't remember this house, but it's—"

Sherlock interrupted. "I'm not saying it's not you."

"Then what are you saying? I don't get it, Sherlock."

"I'm saying that . . ." Sherlock cocked his head to the side and gazed at John appraisingly. "I'm saying that you're David Paddington."

"What?"

"You're David Paddington."

"That's not possible!" John tossed the photo onto the coffee table.

"Why not?"

"Because—because I know who I am!" He gestured angrily at Sherlock. "I bloody well know who I am!"

Sherlock grabbed John's waving arms and held them down. "No, you know who you were _told_ you were."

"What?" his voice was strained. This was seriously messed up. Was Sherlock actually saying that John Watson was—was. . .dead, and he was really someone else? That was impossible.

"Your parents told you that you were John Watson."

"Yes, obviously, Sherlock. They named me. Everyone's parents tell them who they are." He yanked an arm out of Sherlock's grasp. "And let go of me!" His flailing hand bumped the elephant lamp on the side table and over it went, breaking into pieces as it hit the floor. That had been Sherlock's favorite lamp, John knew, but he wasn't sorry it was broken. It was all Sherlock's fault anyway, with his crazy theories.

Sherlock ignored the broken lamp. He released John's other arm, but his steady gaze still held John's. He felt paralyzed by those ocean-blue eyes. "Only two people know the truth," Sherlock said quietly.

"What?" John thought he knew what Sherlock was talking about, but it was too much to process. Every time he tried to get hold of a coherent thought, it slid away again.

"Your parents know what really happened," Sherlock clarified, his eyes still locked on John's. "We have to talk to them."

"What? No! I'm not going to talk to my parents about this! What would I even say?" John broke the eye contact that was making his head hurt, and started to pace, waving his arms frantically. "Mum and Dad, I—WE were just wondering, is John Watson dead? And if so, who the hell am I?" He let out a hysterical giggle. "It's ridiculous, Sherlock. Completely impossible!"

"No," Sherlock responded evenly. "Not impossible, only improbable."

"Well, I'm not going to do it." John crossed to the coatrack and grabbed his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. I need time to think."

He opened the door and strode out without a backward glance. He didn't even stop when Sherlock called after him, "John, you're wearing your pyjamas!"

* * *

John didn't come back that day, or even that evening. Just when Sherlock was about to admit that yes, he was a bit worried, he got a text.

_I'm all right. I'm spending the night at Mary's. See you tomorrow, all right?_

Ok, fine. That was all right. As long as John was coming back, as long as John didn't hate him forever, it would be all right.

As he sat with the phone in his hand, he got another text, this time from Molly.

_I'll be there in 30. Should I bring dinner_**?**

Oh, right, Molly. He had invited her over; he couldn't very well disinvite her now, could he? It might be good to have a distraction, and Molly made for a very nice distraction.

**There's leftover spaghetti. So yes, bring takeaway from Yings.**

Sherlock looked down at himself. Pyjama bottoms, t-shirt, dressing gown. It was probably not good to meet Molly dressed in his pyjamas. That would only make her smirk and roll her eyes, not exactly the reaction he was looking for. A shower was in order, perhaps a shave. And the purple shirt, definitely.


	9. Deducing Molly

**Who Are You?**

**By Navigatio**

* * *

Summary: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Deducing Molly**

Of course the first words out of Molly's mouth when she entered the flat were "How is the case going?"

Sherlock decided to plead ignorance. "Case?" What case? I haven't got any cases on." He tried to keep his voice light, but he couldn't quite help the tone of annoyance that crept in.

Molly wasn't fooled, of course. She struggled to take off her coat while holding two bags of takeaway in one hand. "You know, the missing kid case. The one you went to Wales for."

"Oh, that. Nothing to report." Don't ask again, please, please, please. He noticed he was scowling and quickly turned it into a tight smile.

Molly finally finished removing her coat, tossed it in the general direction of the coatrack, and headed for the kitchen with the bags. Sherlock realized belatedly he ought to have helped her with her coat. He should have remembered that—John was always giving him stick about being oblivious to when others needed help. In a feeble attempt to make it up to her, he followed her into the kitchen and started setting out dishes and flatware.

"Tea?" Molly asked. Yes, good, different subject. Much better. If she probed, he might be tempted to spill the whole story. John might not appreciate that. No, _definitely_ wouldn't appreciate that.

"Oh, yes, I'll make it," Sherlock responded quickly. When Molly paused in her task of pulling takeaway containers from the bag to raise an eyebrow at him, he grinned back at her. "I'm learning, see?"

"Hmm, yes, I see. I'll take mine. . ."

"Cream and no sugar. I know." Sherlock busied himself with filling up the kettle and pulling out the teabags, whilst trying to ignore the expression of happy surprise on her face. He couldn't help the little smirk that tugged up the corner of his mouth. It was good to know he could still surprise her.

"Oh, I've brought this." Molly rifled through the other bag and brought out a DVD. "The Wrath of Khan. Have you seen it?"

"Wrath of Khan? Who's Khan?" He snatched the DVD out of her hand. "Star Trek? Never seen it." He flipped it over to read the back, studiously ignoring the incredulous expression on Molly's face.

"You've never seen Star Trek?"

"Hmm, no." He handed the DVD back to her and tended to the kettle, which had begun to whistle insistently.

"Then you definitely have to watch this."

"That's the second one in the series. Shouldn't I start with the first?"

He looked up in time to catch Molly making a face. "Um, no. The first one was complete rubbish. But this one is much better."

"Ah."

* * *

They ate in the sitting room, side by side on the couch, plates on the coffee table (Sherlock) or lap (Molly). The film had only been going less than five minutes when Sherlock couldn't contain himself.

"That is completely unrealistic!"

"Shhh."

"But that scenario is impossible. She can't win! They're setting her up to fail!"

"Excellent deduction. Now shut up." Molly slurped up a long noodle without looking at him. Sherlock scrunched down on the sofa, scowling with arms folded, plate abandoned.

"This is ridiculous. Where are they meant to be again? These special effects are horrible. And the plot is preposterous."

"Shhh." With her eyes still glued to the telly, Molly put out her hand and patted him on the arm. "Calm down. It's sci-fi. Willful suspension of disbelief, remember?" Oh, that felt good. Yes, keep doing that, he thought. I'll gladly shut up if you'll keep touching me like that.

Her hand lingered on his arm for a second longer, then withdrew. Sherlock completely lost the plot of the movie while he contemplated this development. He generally disliked being touched. No, it was more than that. Being touched was overstimulating and overwhelming, and always had been. But somehow, over the past several years, being touched by first John, and then Molly, had turned into something else, something calming and soothing. Instead of setting his nerves jangling, it helped him bring his body and mind under control. He didn't understand it, but there it was. A little puzzle to solve. More research definitely needed.

Sherlock watched Molly out of the corner of his eye. She was almost finished with her dinner and appeared to be fully absorbed in the movie, ignoring him completely. What prompted her to touch him last time? Ah, yes, complaining about the ridiculous plot. Hypothesis: more complaining would lead to more touching. That was a testable hypothesis. Time for an experiment.

"An eel that controls people's minds? That's utterly absurd!"

"Shhh." This time her hand landed on his shoulder. "It's just a movie." She gave his shoulder a distracted pat and started to pull away, but he caught her hand and put it back. Oops, probably shouldn't have done that. Might skew the results of the experiment.

"Is your shoulder sore?"

"Hm? Oh, a bit. Yeah." That was a good excuse. Sore shoulder. She would buy that, seeing that she was the one who had stitched up the knife wound he had obtained whilst dead.

Molly sat her empty plate down on the coffee table. "Here, I'll rub it for you. Why don't you sit on the floor in front of the sofa?"

"Oh. All right." This was good, very good. Pretending to have a sore shoulder apparently worked even better than complaining about the movie. Time for a new hypothesis, one he could test right now. Brilliant.

"Shirt on or off?"

Whoops, that had worked a bit _too_ well. "On, please."

"Ok." She pointed at the floor in front of her, and he moved to that spot, trying to remain nonchalant about it. It was just a shoulder rub. She had massaged his shoulder before, when the old wound got stiff and sore. The trick was going to be not falling asleep. Which had also happened before. Ok, more than once. But as long as she kept her hands out of his hair, he should be fine. He seriously regretted the day she had discovered that little trick. One unguarded moment on her sofa, with her combing through his hair trying to find a gash on his scalp, and the next thing he had known it had been morning and she had been sitting there watching him with a horrid little knowing smile on her lips.

Molly started working on his shoulder, digging the kinks out, and Sherlock realized that actually it _did_ feel sore, something he had not exactly been aware of until that very moment.

"This is very stiff, Sherlock. Have you been doing your exercises?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, every day."

"Liar," she said affectionately. He felt her lean over, her arms around his neck, and then she was unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. What? Just. . .what? Wait a minute. . .

She peeled back the shirt to expose his shoulder. Oh, that was all right. He felt her warm fingers gently pressing on the spot where he knew the raised white scar crossed just above his shoulder blade. "You really need to stretch this out every day."

"I know. Now be quiet. I'm trying to figure out what the chap with the pointy ears is going on about."

Snickering, Molly replaced the shirt and moved on to the other shoulder. "Sherlock, you're tense all over. Is everything all right?"

"Yes, fine."

"You seemed a bit upset earlier. Did you and John have a row?"

Shit, lost the plot again. Knowing Molly, there would be a quiz after. But now his brain was buzzing. Alert ! Alert! Telling Molly about what was really going on would be a bit not good. More than a bit not good. John would not appreciate it at all. Keep your big mouth shut!

"Mm, no, everything's fine. He's out with Mary." Whew, that was a close one. Sherlock was quite proud of himself for keeping his mouth shut. He definitely was getting better at controlling his tongue, he decided (poor self-deluded sot).

Molly's hand withdrew from his shoulder. Oh, was the massage over? Keep going, please. "Did he break the lamp?"

"It fell." Sherlock reached back for Molly's hand and replaced it on his shoulder. "Now be quiet; I'm watching the movie."

* * *

_He is standing in front of a yellow house. The door is huge, the knob higher than his head. The house is vaguely familiar and frightening, but he doesn't know why. He wants to go inside but he is afraid. He steps up on the porch and reaches up to try the door. Locked. _

_Then suddenly the house is gone, washed away by an enormous wave. He is drowning. Salt water burning his mouth and nose. Coughing and choking, he tries to stand, but the waves knock him down. Sand melting from beneath his feet, Toes digging into the sand, desperate for purchase, but finding none. Something falls from his hand; he's not sure what it was, but he wants it back. He begins to wail. Water closes over his head, drowning out his cries._

John woke up gasping and sweaty, desperately searching in his bed for the thing he had dropped. What was it? He didn't even know, just that he _needed_ it. After a moment, he realized it had been a dream and forced himself to lie back down and breathe evenly.

_(Repeat)_


	10. Rubbing shoulders with the riff-raff

**Who Are You?**

**By Navigatio**

* * *

Summary: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Rubbing shoulders with the riff-raff**

It was nearly four days before John could work up the courage to talk to Sherlock about what had happened. Four days where they tiptoed around each other, being overly polite (John), or simply ignoring the other completely (Sherlock). Four torturous days of silence. Sherlock didn't even play his violin.

Finally, on the fourth day, the last Tuesday in April, John could stand it no longer. He fixed Sherlock a cup of coffee and set it carefully on the table next to his microscope. Sherlock didn't look up, but John could tell he was watching it out of the corner of his eye.

"Black, two sugars."

Now Sherlock's head turned just a little, his eyes darting back and forth between John and the cup. "Mm. . .thank you?"

"Right. You're welcome. No, that's not what I wanted to say." John took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Well, for breaking your lamp, first thing."

Sherlock's jaw set (John did notice these things), but what he said was "It's unimportant."

"No, it's not. It's really not."

"You didn't intend to. It was an accident."

"Yes, that's true, but I'm trying to—Look, Sherlock, do you accept my apology or not?"

"Oh! I accept your apology. Better?"

"Yes, thanks." John nodded. Good. They were getting somewhere. But then. . .

"Finished?" Sherlock asked, already moving back to his microscope, leaving the coffee untouched on the table.

"Well, no, actually. Can we. . ."

Sherlock looked up at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. John realized that the man had no idea what John wanted. If John wanted Sherlock to understand, he was going to have to spoonfeed it to him. Sometimes the gaps in Sherlock's understanding left John shaking his head. How could he know so much and yet so little at the same time?

"I'd like to talk about this," he said flatly. "Please."

"You would? Are you finished thinking about it?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"You said you needed time to think. I was trying to give you time."

"Ah, Ok, Sherlock, you've given me plenty of time. I need to talk about it with someone to sort out how I feel, and since you are the only person who knows what's going on, I suppose I'll have to talk to you."

Oops. Not good. Sherlock moved back to the microscope and peered into it, even though John could see that there was no slide on the stage. "I'm rather busy at the moment."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean. . .That is, I don't mean to say I don't want to talk to you—"

"Really? I may not always pick up on sub-text like that, but I believe I caught your meaning loud and clear. If it is so objectionable to talk to me, why don't you tell Mary, and talk to her?"

"Are you daft? What could I say to her that wouldn't have her running for the hills?"

"Yes, apparently I am daft." Sherlock took his coffee and slipped past John into the sitting room. Oh, John had bodged this one up but good.

After a moment to collect himself, John followed into the sitting room, where Sherlock was standing staring at his violin, coffee forgotten in his hand.

"Right. Let me try that again, shall I?" Sherlock didn't respond or even turn, but his tense shoulders spoke volumes. John sighed. "All right. I would like to talk to you about this. Are you willing?"

Sherlock still didn't say anything, but he did half-turn so he was facing somewhat toward John. Now his gaze was fixed on the clean circle in the dust where his elephant lamp used to stand.

Taking it as an invitation to continue, probably the only one he was going to get, John took another deep breath. "I've been thinking about this. Obviously I have. I don't know exactly what's going on here, but I want to know the truth."

Now he had Sherlock's attention. "There is only one way to find out the truth," Sherlock said immediately. "Well, two ways—maybe three—but only one way to get the truth quickly. . . and completely. And that is to—"

"Ask my parents, yes, I know."

"It's a long drive to Carlisle. . ."

"They do have a phone, out there in the back of beyond. I could call them."

Sherlock was shaking his head adamantly. "No, you mustn't call them."

"Why not? It's quicker than going all the way up there."

"No, it will be better to surprise them. Catch them off guard. Surprise them with the evidence so they won't have a chance to make up a lie."

"Sherlock, these are my parents we're talking about! That's an ambush!"

A look of indecent glee. "Exactly."

* * *

_Drowning. A hand on his head, holding him under the water. Coughing and choking, a mouthful of salt that burns his tongue and throat._

_Through the haze of water in his eyes, he catches a glimpse of his tormentor. It is his mother._

_(Repeat. Only this time it is Sherlock holding him under.)_

_(Repeat.)_

* * *

On Friday they took the train to Carlisle, because John said it was too far to drive. This Sherlock absolutely did not understand. Too far to drive (or rather, ride as passenger, as Sherlock intended to do) in a cosy, accommodating car; but just the right distance to sit in an uncomfortable, filthy train surrounded by strangers? Nonsense.

They were forced to ride in the second class carriage, as first class was full on the way out of London. The train got less crowded the farther they got from the city, but John refused to move once they were seated. Sherlock could have moved up to first class without him, but he didn't want to be alone (not that he would have admitted it).

Just past Sheffield, John fell asleep with his head against the window. Sherlock took the opportunity to study him. Dark circles under his eyes meant that he hadn't been sleeping well. Same jumper three days in a row. Jeans that were _actually_ old, not just meant to _look_ old. So he hadn't seen Mary during that time.

Sherlock caught sight of John's hand, lying still and relaxed on the seat. John's hands were endlessly fascinating. Strong yet gentle at the same time. Capable of stitching up wounds and broken hearts. Soothing a frightened child. Probing injuries without causing further pain. And also mending bones as well as breaking them. That took talent, one that Sherlock knew he was lacking.

John's hands were always warm, hot even. He had heard John apologize for the heat before he touched someone. But Sherlock thought warm hands were a good thing, as his were often cold. Sherlock was always cold, and John was always warm, which meant they could never agree on the right temperature for the flat.

Sherlock could not help himself: he curled his long fingers around John's hand and rubbed his thumb along the back, tracing the bones and veins, stroking circles over the freckles. The heat from John's hand soaked through and warmed Sherlock's hand as well. That warmth felt so good; it made Sherlock want to snuggle up under John's arm and go to sleep too. But of course he couldn't do that. No, John wouldn't fancy waking up and finding Sherlock trying to burrow under his arm. Sherlock may miss some social cues, but even he knew that would be unacceptable. However, he didn't have to like it.

John didn't move, but his breathing changed, so Sherlock knew he was awake now. Caught. Crumbs.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you holding my hand?"

"Hmm. . . yes?"

"Ok, just checking." The corner of John's mouth lifted into a crooked smile. Amused. That meant he was amused, so it was all right. John's hand turned over, captured Sherlock's fingers in a gentle squeeze, and then relaxed again. "I'm ok. I'm not upset."

"I know."

"Well, not too upset."

"I know."

"Yes, well, you know everything." But the smile was still there, so that was all right too.

* * *

At the train station in Carlisle, they rented a car to drive out to John's parents' house. "In case we have to leave in a hurry," Sherlock said. John thought that was ridiculous. Why would they have to leave in a hurry? John hadn't seen his parents since the previous Christmas; he would like to have a nice visit, even if part of the reason for the trip was to ambush them. John thought it was all a bit preposterous anyway, but at least he would know the truth and could get back to the way things were supposed to be.

John drove because he knew the way, and also because Sherlock was a dreadful driver. Riding with him made John sick to his stomach, so John insisted, even though Sherlock complained the whole way. "This is taking forever." "Shut up." "It'll be next week by the time we arrive." "Shut up," and so on.

When John pulled the car up to the kerb in front of the painfully familiar blue house, he felt his stomach lurch as it suddenly hit home to him what he was about to do. Could it be possible? Could all of this be a lie? He stared out the window for a long moment, remembering learning to ride a bike on this street, with his dad trailing patiently behind cheering him on. Climbing the tree on the corner. Kissing the girl next door at thirteen. Oh, God, what if. . . what if. . .

Sherlock's voice pulled him back to the present. "This is the house, isn't it?"

"Yes," John replied distractedly, still staring out the window at the house he grew up in. Same flowerbeds. Same curving walkway. Same cheery welcome sign by the door. "I lived in this house for fifteen years, Sherlock. Was that whole time a lie?"

"We won't know until we get out of the car, will we?"

John rolled his eyes. "Just let me do the talking, all right?"

"Yes, all right," Sherlock said, scooping up his briefcase from the floor of the car and putting his hand on the doorhandle.

"Try not to . . . be weird."

"I'm never weird."

John chuckled. "And these are my parents, so be nice."

"What if they're not your parents?"

"Even if they aren't really. . . either way, they raised me and they deserve respect."

"But what if—"

"Promise me!"

"All right, all right, I promise," Sherlock replied begrudgingly. "Can we get on with this now?"

John turned back to the window in time to see the front door open, and his mum came out, wearing her gardening clothes, basket over her arm. His stomach did a little flip flop. This was his mum they were talking about. His mum who helped him with his schoolwork, cheered him on at rugby games, and fed him homemade scones with strawberry jam when his girlfriend broke up with him. He couldn't remember her ever saying a cross word to him, or anyone else for that matter. He couldn't imagine her. . . doing what Sherlock seemed to think she had done.

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**TBC. . . next chappy will probably be up next Tuesday. . .or earlier if I finish my sewing projects! I'm getting ready for two holiday gift fairs, raising money for a mission trip I'll be taking in March to build houses in Honduras. I'll be sewing like the wind!**


	11. Meet the Parents, Take 2

**Who Are You?**

**By Navigatio**

* * *

Summary: If I weren't who you thought I was-If I weren't who _I_ thought I was, would you still love me? A case Sherlock takes on because of boredom (it's only a _three_, for heaven's sake!) puts John's entire identity into question. (Summary changed to protect the innocent)

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**Chapter 11: Meet the Parents, Take 2**

As John and Sherlock were opening their doors, his mum spotted the car and hurried over. "John? Is that you?"

John straightened up and put on a smile. "Hi, Mum."

"Oh, John, how wonderful to see you, love!" She circled the car, set her basket down and pulled him into a hug, which he returned enthusiastically. He had missed his mum's legendary hugs.

"Yeah, you too, Mum."

"You should have called! I would have tidied up a bit."

John chuckled at this. Mum always said that when visitors stopped by, and yet he was sure the house was as immaculate as always. Homey, comfortable, lived-in, but perfectly tidy and clean. "It's fine, you don't have to clean up for us."

"Us?" His mum suddenly seemed to notice Sherlock for the first time. "Oh! You've brought _Sherlock_!"

Sherlock shot John a glance, and then turned back to Mrs. Watson appraisingly. John knew that look. Oh, God, don't start, don't start. Sherlock opened his mouth, but then seemed to think better of it and closed it again. Thank God.

"Yes, Mum, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my mum Nora Watson."

His mum beamed happily at Sherlock, seeming either to not notice or not care that her smile was not returned. "How lovely to finally meet you! Come in, come in!" She headed for the house, gesturing for them to follow.

"Is Dad here?" John asked on the way up the walk.

"He's just round the corner helping Fred with his fence. I'll call over and tell Susan to send him on home." His mum linked her arm with John's. "He'll be so happy to see you, dear."

"Yeah, great," John mumbled. He glanced back at Sherlock, who was trailing behind with a strange expression on his face. What did that look mean? John couldn't interpret it, but as long as Sherlock could keep control of his tongue, it would be fine.

Once they were inside the house, Mum offered to take their coats. Sherlock declined, even though John thought the house was plenty warm. He wondered if Sherlock was still thinking they might need to make a quick getaway. What an idiot, he thought fondly. It was difficult to be upset with anyone when Mum was around.

"Would you boys like some tea?" His mum offered. "scones with jam?"

Sherlock perked up a bit at that. "Jam?" John smirked at him. He was pretty sure Sherlock had only come here to get more of his mum's jam.

"Oh, yes, I have a few jars of raspberry left. That's the kind you like, isn't it? I was just getting ready to mail you some more."

Sherlock directed another strange look at John, which his mum didn't see because she was already in the kitchen putting the kettle on. John sent back a raised eyebrow. "What?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock just shook his head and his eyes skipped away. Suddenly he seemed very interested in the pictures sitting on the mantle. John followed his gaze: Little John holding baby Harry whilst having a ride in a wagon. Family shot of them all at Hadrian's Wall. John, about age six, sitting on a sled in front of his father, with snow in his hair and a huge grin on his face. Harry blowing out two candles on a pink-iced birthday cake (obviously homemade), with John just behind her shoulder "helping." Just ordinary photos, but Sherlock was staring at them with that same odd expression, almost. . . wistful, maybe? John wished he could ask him what was going on in his head, but at that moment his mum came back in with a tray laden with teapot, cups, a plate of what looked like freshly-made scones, and a jar of her jam.

"Have a seat, please, boys. Dad is on his way home."

John sat on the sofa, thinking Sherlock would take the wing chair, but he was surprised when his flatmate circled the coffee table and sat next to him on the sofa. Sherlock spooned jam onto a scone with a smug smile.

"So, Sherlock, I feel like I know you already, what with John's blog and all. . ." John's mum began, settling into her favorite rocking chair by the fireplace.

Sherlock looked up, startled. "You read John's blog?" He turned to John with a bemused expression. "Your mother reads your blog."

"Yes, I knew that. She comments on it occasionally. You hadn't noticed?"

"I try to avoid reading the comments."

"So is it true, then? You didn't know the Earth goes round the sun?"

"Oh for heaven's sake! I know it now!"

John glanced at his mum—she had a little smile on her face. He recognized that smile. "She's just winding you up, Sherlock."

"Sorry, Dear. I couldn't resist."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Oh, shit. John shot him a warning glare. No, no, no! To his surprise, Sherlock just shrugged and sank back into the sofa. John couldn't quite believe he had actually backed down, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

"He's a bit sensitive about that one, Mum."

At that moment, he heard the back door opening, a bit of thumping around in the mudroom, and a few seconds later, his dad, all 1.9 meters, 17 stones* of him, tromped in. "Johnny!"

John stood up to greet him, and his father enveloped him in a bear hug that threatened to crush his ribs. "How's my boy? It's been ages!"

"Good to see you, Dad." John extricated himself from the hug and gestured to his flatmate, who had stood when John had. "Dad, this is Sherlock."

"Ah, yes, Sherlock Holmes! I recognize you from the pictures in the papers." His dad stuck out his hand to Sherlock, who just stared at it nonplussed. At a nudge from John, he let John's dad grab his hand and shake it heartily.

"Mr. Watson," he intoned.

"Please. Call me Henry."

Sherlock glanced at John for confirmation. John gave him a small nod.

"Very well. Henry."

"So are you lads just here for a social visit, then?" Henry asked, as he hung up his coat on the rack, that same old brown coat he had worn for over thirty years, the one he used to wear while taking John and Harry sledding. Oh, John didn't think he could do this.

"Um, well. . ." John felt Sherlock's elbow prodding him in the ribs. "There was something I wanted to talk to you both about."

"Oh, what's that, Love?" his mum asked.

John bit his lip. "Let's all sit down, shall we?"

Henry settled into the wing chair, reached across and took his wife's hand where she sat in the rocker. It was such a familiar gesture, one John had seen his parents do hundreds of times, sitting side by side in their chairs, hands clasped, both reading a book by the fire. Both of his parents gazed at him expectantly. John's stomach was in knots. How could he do this? How could he ask them . . . what he had to ask them?

John took a deep breath, let it out through his nose, then took another. "When did we move to this house?" he asked finally.

"Oh, let me see. . . You were almost three, I think, so that would make it. . .1974? Isn't that right, Henry? Harry hadn't been born yet," his mum said.

His dad nodded in agreement. "Yes, that sounds right, dear."

"Why did we move?"

"There was a fire," his mum answered quickly. "Do you remember? Our house burned down."

Beside him, John could feel Sherlock shifting in his seat. He knew what Sherlock had picked up on: That answer was too quick. It sounded practiced. John's heart was thudding now. He quickly asked the next question before Sherlock could interrupt.

"Do you have any baby photos of me?"

"Yes, of course, John."

"Can I see them?"

"Haven't you seen them before?"

"Just. . . please, can I see them?"

There was a flicker of something in his mum's face, a fleeting hesitation, almost too brief to spot. "Yes. . . yes, I'll get them." She pulled her hand away from her husband and hurried off down the hall.

"What's all this about, John?" his dad asked. His voice sounded more worried than confused, John thought, but maybe he was imagining that.

"I just. . . I wanted to see the photos."

Before he could say any more, his mum returned with a worn shoebox, the corners dented, lid bent and soft from years of handling. "Here we are. How about this one?" She took the top photo out of the box and handed it to John. Sherlock leaned in to see as well. In the photo John was about three, smiling shyly at the camera. The face was identical to David Paddington's. John could feel Sherlock's piercing gaze directed at him, but he refused to meet his eye.

"Do you have anything. . . earlier? When I was a baby?"

"Oh, no Dear. They were all lost in the fire."

"We were lucky we weren't home when it started," his dad put in. If there even was a fire, John thought. Why was he suddenly questioning everything his parents said? As far as he knew, they had never lied to him before. He had no reason to doubt them. But there it was.

"Where was I born?"

"Slough, Dear, in Wexham Park hospital."

"Why don't we have any family around?"

"John, you know all this," his mum said earnestly, but John thought her voice sounded worried too, instead of confused as it should have done.

"Tell me again."

"Dad was an only child. I had a sister, Claudia, who died before you were born. All of our parents died long ago."

His parents exchanged glances. "Why are you asking all these questions, Son?" his dad asked. Still that worried tone. Anxious. Why would he be anxious? It didn't make sense.

John looked over at Sherlock, who was opening the briefcase. Yes, he supposed it was time for that. He had to do it. He had to know. John held out his hand, and Sherlock put the file folder into it. He was surprised to see that Sherlock looked just as torn and apprehensive as John felt.

As John pulled the death certificate out of the file, his mum was talking, something about his grandmother, who had died in 1969. Liver cancer, she said, or something like that. John wasn't really even listening anymore. He reached out and put the certificate in her hand, and she took it without looking at it.

"And your grandfather had a stroke at 63, poor dear. Just after you were born. He only lived for a few months after that. I was sad to lose him, but it was a blessing really. He was so unhappy in hospital. . ."

"Mum, what does that mean?" John pointed to the certificate, and she looked down at it, confused.

"What are you talking about, Dear?"

"That," he responded flatly. "Tell me what that means."

There was a short pause while his mum scanned the paper. John watched her face turn from confusion to alarm, then outright fear. Her hand went over her mouth and she half-stood from her chair, the death certificate trembling in her fingers. His dad held out his hand to her, helplessly. "Darling. . ."

John's heart was in his throat. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. "_Who am I?_" he asked in a panicked voice.

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**. . . Aaaand you'll have to wait until Friday to find out what his mum says, because that's the next chance I'll have to update.**

**If you've been enjoying this story, please, please, please review! I'd love to get some more feedback. It will encourage me to finish writing the ending! I already have about 11 more chapters written, and at least 3 more left to write.**

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***That's 6'2", 238 lbs, for those of us who don't speak metric/British units**


	12. John Watson is dead Long live John Wats

**Who Are You?**

**By Navigatio**

* * *

Summary: If I weren't who you thought I was-If I weren't who _I_ thought I was, would you still love me? A case Sherlock takes on because of boredom (it's only a _three_, for heaven's sake!) puts John's entire identity into question.

* * *

**Chapter 12: John Watson is dead, long live John Watson**

* * *

"You're—you're John Watson. My son."

Before John could respond, Sherlock jumped in. "No, John Watson is dead."

"No!"

Sherlock was on his feet now. "Yes, he drowned in Wales before his second birthday."

And then John's father, loud and angry, also jumped up and responded. "I don't know what you're on about, young man, but you need to stop harassing my wife!"

"You and your _wife_ kidnapped a little boy off the beach! You put his family through agony, not knowing what had happened to him!"

John sprang from his seat and grabbed Sherlock by the arm. "Back off!" he shouted.

"But they're lying!"

"You promised! Now shut up!" John was sure Sherlock was wrong—there had to be some other explanation, some mix-up. He had somehow ended up with the wrong family accidentally, that was all. It had to be.

Sherlock shut his mouth, but he was still glaring at John's dad, fists curled. John pulled on his arm until he sat back down onto the sofa.

"And Dad, sit down, _please_."

His dad slowly lowered himself back into his chair, reaching out blindly and grabbing his wife's hand. They clung to each other, and John suddenly felt very alone. It was terrifying.

"Mum, tell me what happened," he said as gently as he could muster. "Please, I just want to understand."

There were tears in his mum's eyes now. "Oh, Johnny, I'm so sorry." Her voice was very high and distressed.

She was sorry? What was she. . .? OH! John stopped breathing. Oh, God, Sherlock was right! It was all _true_! "Mum, what did you do?" He turned to his dad, who looked frozen in place, eyes wide and horrified. "Dad, WHAT?"

His mum started talking in a small voice, very different to anything he had ever heard from her before. She sounded so lost. "Our Johnny was gone. He was gone. We looked everywhere, but we couldn't find him."

"_Mum_. . ."

"We went back the next year. Why did we do that?" Her eyes flew to her husband, then away again, face streaked with tears. "We were only torturing ourselves. It hurt so much. Oh, John. . ."

John just stared at her numbly, barely breathing. "Tell me what you did."

"We saw you, John. We saw you and we knew. We both knew. You needed us. Those people—they didn't deserve you."

"That man was drunk," his dad said bitterly. "And the mother was too busy with the older boy to pay any attention to you. You needed us."

* * *

Sherlock's mind was whirling. His crazy theory was actually. . . correct? Of course he already knew it had to be, but it had seemed so improbable.

"No." John was on his feet, staring intently at his mother, forgotten file folder tumbling to the floor. Sherlock jumped up with him.

"They almost let you drown!"

"No." It was not a question, not an exclamation. Just a simple No. Complete denial. Sherlock looked over at John apprehensively. The muscles in John's jaw and temple were jumping—that meant he was grinding his teeth. His fists were clenching and unclenching spasmodically. This was John-about-to-bolt. Hang on a minute! They couldn't leave yet; this was the perfect time to gather more information.

"So you took him," Sherlock interjected. "Then what? What did you do next?"

Nora Watson's head jerked his direction, stunned. "We—we dried him off. He was shaking. We wrapped him up and took him. They never even looked up!"

"He didn't cry or complain." Mr Watson said, voice breaking. "He wanted to come with us. Do you hear that, John? You wanted to come with us, son."

"Don't call me that," John snapped in a low voice, through gritted teeth.

"John, sweetheart, we gave up everything for you. Your father quit his job. We moved house, all the way up here. We did it all for you, because we loved you so much."

John gave a tiny nod and squared his shoulders. Sherlock knew that meant his departure was imminent. He was well aware of the signs, because he had been on the receiving end many times. He quickly started gathering the papers that had spilled from the file and cramming them haphazardly back into the folder.

As John spun on his heel, Sherlock grabbed his briefcase, scooped up the jar of jam from the tray and shoved it into his coat pocket, and scurried after without a backward glance, snagging John's jacket from the coatrack on the way out the door.

By the time Sherlock got outside, John was already in the car, engine revving. He didn't even look over as Sherlock jumped in, and before he could get the seatbelt buckled, the car was away, tyres squealing.

John was driving fast, much too fast for the windy, narrow country road. Sherlock gripped the grab bar with one hand, the other fumbling for the seatbelt. "John, please slow down!"

No response from John. He was staring straight ahead, lips tight and eyes narrowed, shifting automatically without pause. He whipped around another car on a blind curve and just barely got back into his own lane before a car was upon them coming the other direction. Sherlock fought with himself not to grab the wheel, a gesture his conscious mind knew would be unhelpful at best, and disastrous at worst.

After about a kilometer, the bushes along the road gave way to a river, swollen with rainwater, directly to their left. Sherlock's side of the car felt dangerously close to the edge of the road. "John, watch out!" he cried, but his words were swallowed up by the roar of the engine. John gave no evidence that he had heard. Sherlock's mind screamed that they were going to go into the water. What did one do when one's car went into the water, he thought frantically. What? He couldn't remember! He was sure he knew it once, but he must have deleted it.

After one more harrowing curve, where the tyres on Sherlock's side of the car screeched along the crumbling edge of the tarmac, he shouted, "John, pull over before you get us killed!"

To his surprise, John swerved over into a wide spot on the verge, screeched to a halt, and yanked up the handbrake. Almost before the car was completely stopped, John flung open the door and leaped out, striding angrily toward the rushing water. Sherlock scrambled to follow, hit by a sudden terror that his flatmate was going to simply jump into the river and drown himself.

But John stopped before he reached the edge of the water. He bent over, scooped up a handful of rocks from the bank and began to hurl them into the water, harder and harder. Sherlock hung back and watched fearfully. He wanted to intervene, but he was afraid that the next rock would be aimed at his head.

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A/N: Thank you all for the lovely reviews! They make me very happy. If you have a second, you could review this chapter as well. :0)


	13. John falls apart

**Who Are You?**

**By Navigatio**

* * *

Summary: If I weren't who you thought I was-If I weren't who _I_ thought I was, would you still love me? A case Sherlock takes on because of boredom (it's only a _three_, for heaven's sake!) puts John's entire identity into question.

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**Chapter 13: John falls apart**

* * *

When John's hands were empty, he kicked at the rocks and screamed, an inarticulate cry full of such anguish that Sherlock felt physically knocked backward from the force of it. Part of him was analyzing ways to escape, to run back to the car and hide so he didn't have to deal with John's emotions. What could he possibly say, what could he possibly do in the face of that level of pain?

As the scream died out, John bent over at the waist, arms folded tightly around himself, and began to sob, harshly, his whole body shaking. Sherlock watched him helplessly. He wanted to comfort John, but he didn't know how. This was part of the unwritten social code that he had somehow missed. It didn't come naturally to him, and no one had ever taught him. In fact, there didn't seem to be any specific procedure at all. Everyone else just seemed to _know_ what to do, while he was completely at sea.

Let's see, what had Molly done, when he had burst into tears on her sofa while he was dead? He wasn't really sure; he just knew that one moment his carefully maintained control had evaporated, and the next her arms were around him, and it had been incredibly comforting, almost the first time in his life that physical touch had been calming rather than overwhelming.

If he had found it comforting, then John might too. Without analyzing any further, Sherlock walked up beside John, making sure his shoes made noise on the gravel so he didn't startle him, and wrapped an arm around John's trembling shoulders. John leaned into him until Sherlock was supporting most of his weight, his face buried in Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock cast about until he spotted a flat rock a few meters away. Carefully he half-guided, half-carried John to it and sat down with him, arm still tightly wrapped around his shoulders.

After a few minutes of noisy sobs, John's breathing quieted and evened out a bit, although Sherlock was aware that his shoulders were still quivering. Finally he spoke, so softly that Sherlock had to strain to hear. "I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do." His voice trailed off into a harsh whisper, his face pressed hard against Sherlock's shoulder. "My whole life is a lie. I'm so lost," he choked out, the sound muffled by the fabric of Sherlock's coat.

Gently, Sherlock took John's hand and stroked his thumb over his knuckles. "John, the man you are hasn't changed," he said softly. "Genetics means nothing."

John was quiet, apparently listening, so he continued. "You are still the kind, honest, loyal man I'm proud to call my friend."

John sniffled, and after a moment chuckled weakly. "Makes me sound a bit like a dog."

"John, I'm serious."

"I know, Sherlock. And thanks." John straightened up and wiped his face with his palm. "Sorry for. . . getting your coat all wet."

"No apology necessary." Sherlock was still holding John's hand, soaking up the heat. It really was unfair for John's hands to be so toasty warm. No wonder all the girls melted under his touch.

John looked down at their joined hands and cracked a watery grin. "Is this going to be a thing now, you holding my hand?"

"Do you want me to stop?"

The grin widened. "No, I suppose not. Just. . . maybe not when other people are around."

"Noted."

John's grin dropped and he nodded, eyes focused on the river. "This is bloody awful," he said after a long moment.

"Yes."

Several minutes passed, during which time John continued to silently stare out at the river with his fingers curled around Sherlock's. Finally the wobbly grin returned. "Ok, I'm ready to go."

"All right. But I'm driving." Sherlock was expecting a fight, but John just handed him the keys and trudged silently back to the car.

* * *

Riding in the passenger seat of the hired car, John put his forehead against the side window and stared out into the countryside. It was a clear day, not a cloud in the sky, which was a brilliant sapphire blue. John's favorite kind of weather, but he took no pleasure in it. The anger he had felt earlier had dissipated, and now there was just. . . nothing. God, what a mess.

Sherlock's voice startled him. "Do you want to meet them?"

Them? Who? Oh, yes, the other half of this little tragedy. The Paddingtons. Did he want to meet them? "I don't know. What are they like?"

"The father was a Railroad lineman, retired seven years ago. The mother was a bank clerk, also retired." Sherlock's voice was careful, as if he was afraid of rattling John again.

"I'm not asking for their employment history."

"Oh. Right. The mother has a clean criminal record. The father has several arrests but no convictions for drink driving. The father talks little while the mother is voluble. Umm. . ."

John raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. "Go on. I want to know the full story. All your little deductions about them."

"All right. The father is a long-term alcoholic. Their marriage nearly broke up when their son disappeared, although I have the impression they were already unhappy long before that incident. However, they stayed together. They are not close. The only thing they agree on is that their son is alive and they want to find him. I must say I was surprised to discover they were actually correct in their assessment."

John rather thought the big surprise was not that Sherlock had been wrong, but that he was willing to admit it. "What about the—my siblings?"

"The brother, Adam, died in childhood of kidney malfunction. He was born with a kidney condition, and a suitable transplant was never found."

"Oh." John tried to muster up some grief for a lost brother, but completely failed on that score. He had no attachment to Adam Paddington and couldn't even fake it. These were complete strangers to him.

"The sister, Sylvia, is now 50 and lives in north London," Sherlock continued. "She is a bookkeeper, never married. She visits her parents regularly. They don't trust her, but I haven't worked out why."

"Really? You don't know why?" John knew he was winding Sherlock up a little, but he couldn't help it. There was something a bit endearing about Sherlock admitting he couldn't figure something out.

"Hmm. . . not yet. They gave each other a look when I mentioned wanting to talk to her. I wasn't sure what it meant. Of course, now I don't really need to know what she has to say. I've already got the answer I was looking for, apparently."

"Ok, I'll meet them," John said impulsively. He didn't exactly feel like it, but it seemed the right thing to do.

"You will?"

"It seems unfair not to. They've been looking for their son for so long."

Sherlock gave him an affectionate grin. "That's my John." And John couldn't help but grin back. He leaned his head against the window again and stared out at the pastures and fences flashing by. There was a cold lump of anxiety sitting in his stomach at the thought of meeting a group of strangers who wanted to claim him as their own. He already had a perfectly good family—better than good, at least as far as his mum and dad went. As for Harry, well. . . he couldn't deny he had wanted to trade her in once or twice during his life, but when it came down to it, he did still love her, and couldn't imagine replacing her with an older sister he had never even met.

With these thoughts still turning over and over in his mind, he drifted off to sleep, trusting Sherlock would wake him once they got to the Carlisle train station.

* * *

_A hand on his head, pushing him under the water. Gasping for breath, sucking in a mouthful of salt that burns his tongue and throat. Choking, drowning. A voice—his mum's voice-telling him he's worthless_.

* * *

When John woke with his heart pounding in his ears drowning out the hum of the car engine, the first thing he became aware of, before he even opened his eyes, was that someone was holding his hand. No, not someone—It was Sherlock's hand on top of his, Sherlock's cool fingers curled possessively around his.

"Sherlock," he said sleepily. "Why are you holding my hand?"

"You said it was all right." Sherlock's hand pulled back, and John immediately missed it. He was always too warm, and Sherlock's cooler hand had felt good on his skin.

John considered. "I suppose I did, but why do you want to? I thought you didn't like to be touched."

"With you it's different."

"Really? How so?"

"Hmm. . . when I was a boy, whenever someone got too close, I went into sensory overload. There were so many smells, sights, sounds. . . It was just too much. My system was overwhelmed and I would either put my hands over my ears, or start screaming. . . sometimes both."

John didn't want to laugh at that, but he couldn't help the grin that quirked the corner of his mouth up. "I can see that happening, yes."

"Don't make fun."

"All right, I'm sorry. It sounds like sensory integration disorder."

"That was one doctor's diagnosis, yes."

"One doctor? How many did you see?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Finally John prompted, "Sherlock?"

"I'm counting."

"Oh." He had to count to remember them all? That didn't sound right.

"Three psychologists, two neurologists, and four psychiatrists."

"Good God, nine specialists?"

"Mm, yes, My mother took me to a new one whenever they refused to increase the dosage on my medication. Or when they started asking too many questions."

"What medications?"

"Dexmethylphenidate, Thioridazine, Haloperidol, Diazepam, Chlorpromazine. . ." Sherlock's tone was clinical, unemotional, but John found his blood pressure rising with each drug he listed.

"Those are all major antipsychotics!"

"I know that now. They never helped, and they just upset my stomach, so after a while I just stopped taking them. By that time I was too big to push around, so there was nothing Mummy could do about it. When I got older, I learned to control it on my own, but the urge is still there. But for some reason, lately when you touch me, it calms me down, helps me focus. I found it harder to stay calm when-when you weren't around."

"Oh." John hadn't considered that Sherlock actually _liked_ being touched by him. That Sherlock might have actually _missed_ him when they were apart. "So this is something new? Is it just me?"

"Hmm, no." Sherlock paused and pressed his lips together. John just waited quietly. He had learned if he gave Sherlock a little space, sometimes he would share more, often without even realizing it.

"Molly too," Sherlock admitted finally.

Oh this was interesting. Best not to seem too interested, however, or he'd clam up. "Really?"

"Yes. When I was. . . dead, she took care of me. When I got into scrapes, you know. She cleaned me up, stitched me up a few times." Sherlock rubbed his left shoulder. John just kept listening quietly. This was the most Sherlock had shared about his foray into darkness, and John was desperate to know more, but was afraid to ask. He knew that pushing him for information would only end in retreat. "It felt good, helped calm me down," Sherlock continued finally. "Of course, she doesn't do that anymore."

"But you want her to?"

"Mm, sort of. I suppose."

John smirked. "Then why don't you. . . you know, try touching her? I'm sure she would let you."

"John, I'm not a complete fool. I know how she feels. If I were to touch her, she would have expectations. I don't think I'm ready to fulfill those expectations."

"Hmm. . . Do you think you might be ready to do that at some point in the future?"

Sherlock's head tilted while he considered that for a moment. "Maybe. But I don't want to confuse her. With you I don't have to worry about that."

John's smirk turned into a chuckle. "Good to know you're not trying to confuse me."

"You know what I mean."

"Sure, Sherlock, all right." John sat up a little in his seat and took a peek out the car window. They were on a motorway now, and the rolling green countryside of northern Cumbria had given way to mountains and lakes, so they were clearly south of Carlisle and the train station. "Hey, we're past Carlisle. Aren't we taking the train?"

"I decided to drive back. We can return the car at King's Cross." Sherlock shot a glance at John and obviously observed the gathering thunderclouds on his brow. "I'll pay the extra fee."

John shook his head. "All right, whatever, fine. But you have to drive all the way."

"I will."

"And pay the tolls this time! No trying to drive around the barrier."

"I will."

"Good." John leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes again. As long as Sherlock was willing to drive and pay, he supposed it didn't matter. He could have a kip here as well as on the train. As he was about to drift off to sleep, he felt Sherlock's hand on his again, hesitant, tentative. John supposed it was the closest Sherlock would get to admitting that he needed warmth and companionship. He caught Sherlock's cool fingers and squeezed, gently, just to let him know it was still all right.


	14. Sherlock gets tongue-tied

**Chapter 14: Sherlock gets tongue-tied**

* * *

**Date**: 3 May, 2014

**To**: Anna Paddington

**From**: Sherlock Holmes

**Subject**: Re: Please help us find our missing son!

Mrs Paddington,

You and your husband are to submit a DNA sample to the following address.

Dexter Genetics Laboratory  
322 Catlin Street  
London, England

Phone: (020) 4763 8034

Contact the lab to request a kit. Request that the results be sent to me at 221B Baker Street, London.

Sherlock Holmes  
Consulting Detective

* * *

_A hand on his head, pushing him under the water. Trying to see the face, salt burning his nose and eyes, everything blurry. Short blond hair. Who is it? Harry? Choking, coughing. A voice hissing in his ear. Worthless. No one wants you. Why don't you just die?_

_(Repeat)_

* * *

Sherlock found John in the sitting room, in his favorite chair with the DNA vial in his hand. John was staring vacantly into space, and the seal on the vial was unbroken, the swab undisturbed, so he hadn't used it yet.

Sherlock watched him silently. Dark smudges like bruises under his eyes. Shoulders tense. Brow furrowed. John was not ok. Definitely not ok, despite his protestations to the contrary. This awareness made Sherlock's stomach hurt. He knew on some level that this time John's pain was not actually his fault, but he couldn't help but feel responsible nonetheless. He had caused John so much pain in the relatively short time they had known each other; he didn't want to hurt him again.

Sherlock hadn't moved or made any noise, but John suddenly started and looked up. "Hey," he said listlessly.

"I can. . .I can take that to the post tomorrow if you like."

John looked down at the DNA vial in his hand and chewed on his lip. "Probably should use it first, right?"

"It would be more effective that way, yes."

John held up the vial and regarded the swab inside. "Looks fairly innocuous, doesn't it? Just a simple cotton swab."

Sherlock had no response to that, so he said nothing, just waited, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot.

"Doesn't seem like it should have the power to tell me who is and who is not my family."

"Family can be more than just blood, John."

John cocked his head at him, eyebrows up in surprise.

"I mean—I mean. . . blood isn't everything. The people you choose to surround yourself with. . .I don't know how to explain it," Sherlock finished lamely. It wasn't often that words failed him, but of course it happened most when it really counted. The more he actually cared about the outcome, the more likely his tongue was to tie itself in knots.

There was a half-grin on John's face that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I think I understand, Sherlock. And thanks." The grin widened just a bit. "Never thought I'd get a lesson in relationships from Sherlock Holmes."

"John. . ."

"All right, I'm sorry. Couldn't resist." He focused on the vial again and the smile vanished. "I don't know what I'm doing here."

Sherlock sat on the edge of the coffee table and gently tugged the vial from John's hand. He held it up with a raised eyebrow. "Ready?"

John nodded, just once. Sherlock could see the muscle in his jaw working, grinding his teeth. Carefully he twisted the top off the vial to break the seal, extracted the swab and handed it to John.

John held up the swab in a silent "cheers", stared at it for a second, and then swabbed the inside of his cheek, quickly, not making eye contact. When he was done, he silently held out the swab and Sherlock covered it with the vial.

After another silent tense nod, John pulled himself out of his chair. "Tea?" he asked lightly.

* * *

_Lying on a hard bed. Bright lights in his face. Huge faceless men surrounding him. He is whimpering in fear. _

_The lights turn into bright sunlight reflecting off water. The bed bobs on the waves and flips, dumping him into the sea. Drowning. The men holding him down, holding his head under. Salt water up his nose and in his throat. Choking, gagging. struggling but he can't get free._

_Voices hissing. You're better off dead. You should never have been born._

_(repeat)_

_(repeat)_

_(repeat)_

* * *

John heard the violin before he even entered the flat. Something in a minor key—he didn't recognize the tune, but that didn't mean anything. In school he had been too busy playing rugby and chasing skirts to pay attention to any formal musical instruction.

He trudged up the stairs slowly. It had been a long day, and he was bone-tired. Between the rush at work, and the lack of sleep, he felt like death warmed up. The music was a nice thing to come home to, however. He had missed the music while Sherlock was dead. That and the fact that the flat smelled good, sort of like roasted chicken, were improving his mood a bit. He wondered vaguely if Sherlock were doing an experiment on a chicken-starting with a live one in the microwave perhaps—and if John would have to clean it up.

He dropped his keys on the entryway table, and then froze when he spotted a fat envelope on the table, addressed to him, with the name Dexter Genetics Laboratory in the upper left corner. The test results. Oh God, the test results. Breathe. Breathe, he reminded himself. Just breathe.

John picked up the envelope and turned it over in his hand. The back was blank. He flipped it back over and stared at the return address for a long moment, when suddenly he became aware that the violin had stopped. Looking up, he saw Sherlock watching him warily, violin and bow hanging limply from his hands.

John held up the envelope and sort of waved it around half-heartedly, then dropped it emphatically back down on the entryway table. Not opening that yet. Not until he'd had a cup of tea, at least. Sherlock was still watching him silently, unmoving, unblinking. Deducing him. Taking him apart to his molecular level looking for clues. Clues to what exactly, John didn't know. He was finding it a bit unnerving, frankly.

"I'm starved," John said finally, to break the silence, whilst shrugging off his jacket. His back was conveniently turned toward Sherlock, so he didn't have to face those appraising eyes. "Have we got anything in?"

"I've made some dinner. It's in the oven."

John paused with his coat halfway to the hook, and turned his head to look at his flatmate. "You have?"

"Yes. Roasted chicken."

"And you learned how to do this _how_, exactly?"

"I can cook."

John smirked. "I think I'm not hungry, actually." But his smirk dropped when he saw Sherlock's crestfallen expression.

"Molly gave me some pointers," Sherlock mumbled, eyes dropping to the floor. "But fine. If you're not hungry, that's fine." He turned back toward the window and raised his bow again.

"I was teasing. Of course I'm hungry," John soothed as he headed toward the kitchen. "When have you ever known me not to be hungry?"

"Never."

"There, see?"

* * *

They ate in silence, both of them pushing the food around on their plates without actually eating much, while John kept sneaking glances at the door to the sitting room where the envelope lay on the side table. Finally Sherlock had had enough. He stuffed a bite into his mouth and jumped up. Without looking back, he strode into the sitting room and grabbed the envelope. When he got back into the kitchen he laid the envelope down next to John's plate with a snap.

"Right. Just open it already."

"After dinner."

"What's the point in waiting?" Sherlock rejoined impatiently. "It won't change the outcome."

John dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter. "All right, fine." Wiping his fingers on his napkin, he scooped up the envelope. "Sherlock, sit down," he snapped at his flatmate, who had started to pace in the tiny kitchen. "Please."

As soon as Sherlock had dropped into his chair, John slid his finger under the flap of the envelope and opened it. He pulled out the sheaf of papers inside, scanned the contents and let it fall onto the table, scowling. Sherlock watched him carefully. His eyes were narrowed, eyebrows down. That meant he didn't like what he saw. Now John's arms were folded, mouth set into a tight line.

"It's a match." Sherlock said quickly, when John didn't speak. Of course it was. It had to be.

John just breathed out noisily and pushed a rough hand through his hair. "Jesus, this is fucked up."

"But you already knew it must be the case."

"Doesn't make it any easier."

"But isn't it better to know?"

"Dunno." John sat staring at an indeterminate spot on the table for a long moment, face a complete blank. Sherlock felt that hard knot of anxiety return to his belly. He needed John to talk, to say this was all right. The silence was killing him; didn't John know that?

"John," he ventured finally, "What are you thinking?"

A tiny shrug was the only response.

"What are you. . .feeling?"

"You don't care about my feelings." John's tone was even. Was he upset about that? Sherlock didn't know. He wished he could come right out and ask, but apparently that was not the way these things were done. Anyway, John was wrong. He did care. If there was anyone he cared about, it was John.

"Yes I do," he responded finally, but the brief hesitation had done its damage.

John shook his head. "You've said it often enough: 'Sentiment is a chemical defect.'"

"Maybe I'm defective then. Just like everyone else."

That elicited a small chuckle. "No, you don't want to be ordinary, remember? Don't pretend you care."

That knot in Sherlock's stomach was trying to force its way up and had gotten stuck in his throat, there was no other way to explain the lump that had suddenly appeared about the level of his larynx. He wanted to tell John that he did care, he really did, but the words were stuck too and wouldn't come out. Or rather, he was afraid if he let the words out, something else was going to come out too. His eyes were burning; he squeezed them shut to keep the tears from escaping.

Sherlock heard John sigh, then a quiet, "Ok, I'm sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me lately."

"It's all right."

"Yeah, it's not. I know it's not." John pushed his plate away, his dinner nearly untouched. "Shit, I have to tell Mary."

"Yes."

"What can I tell her? What can I even say, Sherlock? 'Would you still love me if I weren't who you thought I was? If I weren't who _I_ thought I was?' I don't know how well that's going to go over."

Sherlock couldn't help the little smile that lifted the corner of his mouth. Those words were so familiar. . .

"What?" John said, narrowing his eyes at the strange expression on Sherlock's face. "What's so funny?"

"I said almost those exact words to someone one time."

"Oh? How did it go?"

"She. . . stayed."

"She's a keeper, whoever she was," John said, shaking his head. "I don't know what Mary will say. We haven't even been dating all that long, but I really want this to last. This is quite the bombshell to drop on her."

"If she really cares about you, she'll understand."

Now the corner of John's lip quirked up as well. "More relationship advice, Sherlock? I thought that wasn't your area."

Sherlock dropped his eyes and shrugged. John was right, of course; he really should stick to his area of expertise and leave the relationship advice to someone with some actual experience. Ok, then, back to a subject he actually knew something about.

"When do you want to meet the Paddingtons?" He asked abruptly.

"Oh, God, that's right. Them. I don't know, just not here, please."

"No? Then where?"

"Someplace neutral. I can't meet them here."

"All right, I suppose I'll figure something out. When?"

John shrugged. "I might have next Tuesday off. How about then?"

"Tuesday. All right." Where the hell was he going to find a place for John to meet the Paddingtons? And how the hell was he going to have it all arranged by Tuesday? He had no idea.

"Good. Are we done here?"

Sherlock silently let his eyes sweep over John's face. Brows contracted, mouth in a tight line, jaw tense, neck muscles strained, shoulders hunched, arms folded—all added up to a very unhappy man.

"John, please tell me, are you. . .I mean, you're not all right, I can tell. I want to help."

But John only shook his head. "You've done enough, Sherlock. I just need some time to work this out on my own. Now are you finished deducing me? May I go?"

Sherlock chewed the inside of his cheek. "Yes, of course."

"Thank you." John turned on his heel and strode out of the room. A second later, Sherlock heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs heading up to his bedroom.

* * *

**Reviews are nice. . .**


	15. John gets tongue-tied

**A/N: I like symmetry. :-)**

* * *

**Chapter 15: John gets tongue-tied**

* * *

_The yellow house again. Trying to open the front door, but it's locked. Hands grab him from behind and yank him off his feet. Big hands. Hitting, pinching him. Tying him down to a hard bed. He can't move, can't get away. A man in a mask pointing a gun at his arm. He is crying. _

_Suddenly a huge wave washes it all away—the man, the bed, the gun, everything. He's alone in the wide ocean, and he is sinking. Salt water burning his nose and throat. Something falls from his hand and is washed away by a wave._

_(repeat)_

* * *

The next morning Sherlock couldn't do anything right. His every move brought some sort of critical remark or sigh from John, until he just couldn't stand it anymore. He wouldn't admit it, hardly even to himself, but John's words hurt.

After coffee ("This coffee's too strong. Add more water next time." "Aren't you going to eat _anything_?" *sigh and eyeroll*) Sherlock got dressed ("I hope you didn't leave your pyjamas wadded up on the bathroom floor again." "God, this place is a mess." "_When_ are you going to pick up those bloody newspapers?!") and escaped the flat with a muttered, "I'm going out." ("Going where? It's not like you've got a _job_ or anyplace to go." "Why don't you do something _useful_ with your time?")

Once he was on the street, he jammed his hands in his pockets (forgot his gloves, dammit, and there was no way he was going back in to fetch them), and considered where to go. There was the matter of a room to be arranged where John could meet the Paddingtons. It was still early, but he might be able to catch Lestrade at NSY to ask about one of their soundproof interrogation rooms. He needed someplace private; someplace where, if there was a row, they wouldn't be overheard. The way John was going on these days, a row was looking exceedingly likely. In any matter, it would be tense.

He turned left and headed toward NSY on foot. Didn't have his wallet on him (double dammit!), so a cab was out of the question. It looked like he had a cold, drizzly walk ahead of him.

* * *

It took an interminably long time to walk to NSY, and even longer to find Lestrade, and then FOREVER to convince the man to let him borrow a room, even an interrogation room for pity's sake, at some indeterminate time in the future, maybe Tuesday.

"What do you want it for?"

"To meet with a client."

"Can't you meet them at your flat?"

"Not this time?

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"When do you need the room?"

"Maybe Tuesday sometime. I don't know. It depends on. . ."

"Depends on WHAT?"

"Well, on his-their schedule."

"How am I supposed to promise you a room if you don't even know when you need it for?"

"Lestrade. . ." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "_Please_."

At that point, Lestrade relented, although he still insisted that Sherlock let him know as soon as possible when he would need the room, and for how long, and Sherlock was so desperate to get out of there that he promised, and even thanked Lestrade for his help. This last bit seemed to amuse Lestrade no end.

And then when Sherlock was almost out the door, he heard Lestrade's voice. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, quite all right," Sherlock called over his shoulder, and escaped without looking back.

It was now nearly noon, and Sherlock found himself with nowhere to go and nothing to do. He didn't dare go back to Baker Street. He was still smarting from the last round of criticism and didn't fancy subjecting himself to it again if he could avoid it. It was still gloomy and drizzly out. Not exactly the right sort of weather for an outing at the park. He'd freeze solid, even though it was gone mid-May. Bloody London. Teased everyone outside in April with sunshine and flowers, only to soak them all in May. At least it kept the tourists down to acceptable levels. He could walk the sidewalks without fighting his way through crowds, being touched on every side. Shudder. With room to spare, Sherlock could afford to get lost in his thoughts instead of having to focus all of his concentration on avoiding being run over.

The main thing he had to think about was John, of course. John's moods were always a bit unpredictable (at least to Sherlock), but in the last few weeks, they had taken a definite turn for the worse. Sherlock felt as if he were always walking on eggshells around the flat. He had been trying very hard, or so he believed, to keep things the way John wanted them since he had returned, to keep John happy, but it just wasn't working. John's moods had continued to deteriorate, and Sherlock was finding it somewhat alarming.

Almost an hour later, Sherlock looked up to discover his feet had taken him to St Bart's. By this point he was soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably. Being cold was the worst thing in the world, he decided.

He checked his watch. Almost 1 pm, which coincidentally was the time he knew that Molly's shift started. Perfect. Maybe she'd give him coffee. Or possibly a sandwich.

* * *

John was standing outside Mary's door, debating with himself whether he should actually ring the bell, when the matter was decided for him. Mary, hair in a pony tail, dressed casually in tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie with earbuds hanging out the neck, opened the door and stopped dead when she saw him.

"Oh, John! I didn't know you were coming over today."

"I had some time so I just thought. . ." he trailed off into a mumble. She was busy. Of course she was busy. He should have called ahead. "I'm sorry, I'll just go."

He turned on the step, ready to bolt, but her hand on his arm stopped him. "No, it's fine. Come on in."

"But you were just heading out."

"It's fine, I didn't fancy taking a run in the wet anyway. I'd much rather spend time with you." Her smile seemed genuine, but did little to dispel his anxiety. Would she really want to spend time with him once she had heard what he had to say?

"All right," he agreed hesitantly, following her into her tiny, pleasantly cluttered flat. Most of the horizontal surfaces, and many of the vertical ones as well, were filled with photos and memorabilia of her travels and interests. John found her flat endlessly fascinating; there was always something new to explore.

Today, however, he was too distracted to pay much attention to his surroundings. His eyes skipped over the stacks of magazines without processing their titles, while his mind was busy analyzing and discarding possible ways to open the conversation he needed to have with her.

"John? John!"

"Huh?" His head snapped up, startled.

"I've been asking you if you want a cup of tea."

"Oh. Uh, yes, please."

"Ok. Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine."

"Right. I'll just get that tea then."

"Ok." John ignored the worried look she shot him on her way to the kitchen. His mind was already back to working on the problem at hand. Christ, this was hard.

When Mary came back several minutes later, carrying the tea tray, John was still standing in the same spot, eyes on the carpet. He looked up and noticed the heavy tray.

"I'm sorry, here, let me get that for you." He took the tray from her hands, carefully set it on the coffee table, and began pouring out the tea, adding sugar to Mary's the way she liked it. Two spoonfuls, just like Sherlock. Another thing John liked about Mary was the way she had accepted Sherlock's return without drama. She even seemed to have genuine affection for John's crazy flatmate, and not just the fascination that women always had for Sherlock until he opened his mouth. She didn't mind him disrupting their plans or even inviting himself along. Whenever she made dinner for John, she always made some for Sherlock as well.

He held Mary's cup up to her, and discovered she was watching him with a bemused expression. "You've got something on your mind."

"Hmm, well. Why don't you sit down?"

"Ok." She sat in the chair opposite where he was perched on the sofa, her face expectant, a little smile on her lips. What she might be expecting, John didn't know, but he was sure it wasn't what he was about to tell her.

"I need to . . . I mean, I have to . . . I have something to tell you."

"Oh?" The smile dropped. "What is it?"

John stared into his cup. "I've found something out, something I need to tell you, and I. . . This is difficult."

"John? What is it?"

He stood abruptly, tea sloshing in his cup. "I can't."

The expectant look on Mary's face had turned to confusion. "Can't what?"

"Oh, God, I can't do this."

"John? What are you trying to do? What are you trying to say?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm not. . .I'm not who you think I am."

"What?" Confusion was quickly turning to concern.

"I've found out something. I found out I'm not—I'm not John Watson."

"I don't understand."

"I'm somebody else. I died. I mean, John Watson died."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

John felt his agitation increasing. This was not going well. He didn't know how to explain it, and he was only confusing her more with his attempts. "John Watson is dead!"

"Then who are you?"

"No, Mary, I'm not—I didn't know!"

"Didn't know what?"

John clenched his teacup tightly in his hand. He didn't understand why he was so angry, but there it was. "I don't know ANYTHING!" He hurled the teacup across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered, leaving behind a dripping brown stain.

"John!"

He tried to focus on Mary's face, but it was so hard. The anger was clouding his vision. Through the haze he could make out her widened eyes and open mouth. He had scared her. "Mary! I'm sorry!"

"John, maybe you'd better leave. We can talk later, once you calm down."

"No, Mary, I can control myself! Please!" He stared at her wild-eyed, terrified that she would kick him out. He needed her! Didn't she see that?

Before he knew what was happening, he found himself standing outside her closed door, his coat clutched in his sweaty hands. It may have been cold and damp outside, but white hot fury was building inside him, heating him up like a furnace. His hand was itching to punch the door, the wall, anything. He had to get out of there before he did something else he would regret.

* * *

Sherlock entered the morgue to find Molly seated at his favorite microscope. Her face was a bit flushed and tendrils of hair had escaped her clip. She didn't look up when he entered, so he slipped off his coat and jacket, tossed them across an exam table, and crossed the room noisily. That caused her to look up briefly, but her face was anything but welcoming.

"Molly," he said, by way of greeting.

"Hullo, Sherlock," she said, and ducked her head back down to look through the eyepiece again.

He watched her for a moment. There was a brownish stain on the front of her lab coat, her sleeves were pushed up, and she was clearly halfway through the box of slides that sat next to the microscope.

"I thought your shift started at 1."

"Got called in early. Three bodies to process."

That caught his attention. "Oh?" He came over and stood behind her, craning over her shoulder to see what she was looking at.

"Motor vehicle accident, car versus motorcycle and pedestrians."

"Ah." That was disappointing. No nice juicy triple homicide then. "What are you looking at?"

"There were paint chips found on the motorcyclist's clothing. I am attempting to determine if they all match the make and model—give me that!" She wrested the box of slides from Sherlock's hand. "—of the car involved."

"Oh? And do they?"

"I haven't determined that yet." She jotted down some illegible notes and changed slides without looking at him. "Sherlock, do you have anything to work on?"

"Mm, no, not exactly."

"Then what do you want?"

"I'd like a cup of coffee, if you don't mind."

She sighed. "Yes, actually, I do mind, Sherlock. There is the body of a ten-year-old boy waiting in the cooler, and he's more important than your cup of coffee!"

Sherlock scowled. "If he's dead, then he's not going anywhere," he grumbled.

"Sherlock!"

"What? He won't mind waiting a few more minutes."

"OUT!"

"What? Why?"

She was poking him in the chest now, pushing him toward the exit. "Get. Out. Before I do something I regret."

Sherlock scooped up his coat on the way to the door, with Molly's hand on his back hustling him along. And then he found himself staring at the closed door to the morgue, shivering, dripping coat clutched in his hands. Dammit! It was going to be a cold, lonely walk back to Baker Street.


	16. When Hot and Cold collide

**A/N: I realize John is a little out of character here. He has a reason for it, that even he doesn't understand yet.**

* * *

**Chapter 16: When hot and cold collide**

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when Sherlock got back to Baker Street. The walk home in the continuing drizzle had done nothing to improve his mood, which was as dreary as the weather. He took the stairs two at a time, looking forward to having a hot shower, perhaps a cup of tea.

As he neared the top of the stairs, he became aware that the door was cracked open, and he could hear noises inside: thumping and bumping, and then an explosion of shattering glass. What the hell. . .?

Sherlock carefully pushed open the door and was confronted with what looked like the aftermath of a tornado. The doorway was partially blocked by a heap of coats and shoes; crumpled newspapers were strewn all over the floor, interspersed with shards of broken glass that looked like they may have once been one of his beakers. Had there been a break-in? No, John's laptop lay undisturbed on the coffee table.

He could hear noises from the kitchen now, thumping, crashes and muttered curses. He carefully stepped over the coats, foot crunching on a curved piece of glass, and took a few cautious steps into the room, just enough that he could see around the corner into the kitchen. John was standing with his back to him, grabbing up dishes from the countertops and slamming them into the sink, hard enough to shatter a plate. John's t-shirt was rumpled and stained, and his sweaty hair stuck up at angles.

"John?" Sherlock said before he could stop himself. "What on earth. . .?"

John dumped a load of dishes into the sink and turned, slamming his hand against the counter. "I'm cleaning up _your_ mess, you fucking idiot!"

Sherlock scanned the kitchen. Water and mud on the lino, pieces of broken glass littering the counter, the rubbish bin overturned with rubbish spilling out. "It looks like you're creating a bigger mess," he said mildly.

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because John was coming toward him now, red-faced, lip raised in a sneer. "Yes, because that's all I do, isn't it? Create bigger messes!"

Sherlock took an involuntary step back. "I—I didn't say that." What the hell was going on? He knew John had been upset, but now-he had never seen John so angry, not even after Sherlock had drugged his tea. "Did things not go well with Mary?"

"Don't try to put this off on Mary! My life was fine until _you_ came back. _You_ are one who messed up my life!"

"John, what-what are you talking about? What happened?" Until you came back? What did he mean by that? Was he saying he was better off without Sherlock?

"Because of you, I've lost my family!" John's wet soapy hand caught Sherlock in the middle of the chest and pushed him backward against the table.

"It's no great loss, John." That was meant to be soothing, but the effect was quite different to what Sherlock expected.

"NO GREAT LOSS? They're my parents, and I love them! I know you don't understand that, but I DO!" Each sentence was punctuated with a push until Sherlock was practically sitting on the table. "You are infuriating!"

Sherlock could feel his temper rising. John had it all wrong, and he was determined to set him straight. He caught John's hand and pushed it away sharply. "They lost their real son because of their negligence, and so they kidnapped you!" He spat back. "That's not what loving parents do!"

"Shut up, Sherlock! They were never anything but loving to me. And now I'm going to lose them because of you!" John pushed over a chair and stomped into the sitting room, where he began grabbing Sherlock's scattered books and tossing them in the general direction of the bookshelves.

Sherlock hopped the overturned chair and followed, eager to press his point. "Ha!" he shouted. "Perfect house, perfect parents—I knew there had to be something rotten at the heart of it!"

John straightened, his back to Sherlock, but he said nothing, so Sherlock continued. "It had to be a lie from start to finish!"

John spun around, face contorted in fury. Before Sherlock could react, John's left fist shot out and connected with his jaw, just behind the chin. Sherlock stumbled backward, fell over the coffee table, and landed on the floor on his elbow and hip first, then rolled over onto his back. "John!"

John stood frozen, left hand still curled into a fist, chest heaving. After a moment, he took a step back and pushed his trembling hands through his hair. "Jesus, what am I doing?"

Sherlock sat up carefully, rubbing his jaw. "It's all right, John. I'm not hurt."

"I've got to get out of here," John mumbled. He pawed through the pile of coats until he found his favorite black jacket, and stomped out the door without a backward glance, slamming the door behind him. The door hit a wayward shoe and bounced open again.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and stood staring at the swinging door. What the hell had just happened? He frantically replayed the conversation in his mind. What had pushed John over the edge? It had to be the bit where Sherlock had said that his happy little family was a lie. That was the truth, he knew, so why—why-? How could John still be defending them, after what they had done? Somehow, John remained loyal to them, even though they had lied to him all those years.

Oh.

Just as John had remained loyal to Sherlock, even after he had lied to him and left him behind. And now Sherlock had just ridiculed John's loyalty. Oh. The realization hit him as hard as the punch to the jaw.

Swallowing down the lump that had reappeared in his throat, Sherlock stumbled into the bathroom and inspected his jaw in the mirror. It had turned purple and was a bit swollen, but overall it didn't look too bad. He could fake it.

* * *

Molly parked her car a half-block from 221 Baker Street and looked out the window dubiously. It was still doing that typical London half-drizzle, the type that soaked you to the skin much faster than seemed possible. It was days like these that made her grateful for the little Fiat 500 that she had bought with the meager inheritance her dad had left her. It wasn't much, but it did keep the wet off, and with its small size it was easy to park, so it was perfect for London. And with her small size, the car was also perfect for her.

She asked herself again why she was here, after the shift she had just had, instead of home in her nice cosy flat. Something about the look on Sherlock's face as she had shoved him out the door of the morgue earlier had activated her overzealous conscience. That and the fact that his shirt was wet, which she hadn't realized until after the door had closed in his face. He had come to her cold, wet, and lonely, and she had pushed him away. If only he had TOLD her he was cold, wet and lonely—but that wasn't Sherlock's way, and she knew it.

As Molly hauled herself out of her seat, she spotted a man coming out of 221—compact stature, short black jacket-It was John. She was about to call to him when she noticed the set of his shoulders and the way his hands clenched into fists. He turned the other direction and strode off briskly down the street. Huh.

Molly climbed the stairs and quietly knocked on the partially open door to 221B. She wondered what state she would find Sherlock in. He certainly seemed stressed the last few times she had seen him. Now John had just stomped off, and she thought she could guess why. All signs pointed to an epic row.

After a few seconds, Molly carefully pushed the door open. "Sherlock?" Good grief, what had happened to their flat? It looked like a bomb had gone off. Truth be told, it looked much worse than it had when an actual bomb had gone off there. What the hell had Sherlock been doing?

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, black shirt untucked and trousers wrinkled. "Molly," he said distractedly. "What are you doing here?"

Molly cracked a wry smile. That comment was just so. . . Sherlock. "I came to apologize, actually. I'm sorry for kicking you out of the morgue earlier."

"No apology necessary. I know I was being annoying." When he waved her apology off, she noticed that his shirtsleeve was torn and his elbow was bloodied. Hmm.

"You weren't. . .Ok, maybe you were being annoying, but I could have responded better."

He shrugged. "Apology accepted," he said flatly.

"So. . . what happened here?" She gestured around at the mess, and he shook his head.

"Nothing. Looking for something."

"Uh-huh. Right." She spotted something on his jaw—a bruise? That hadn't been there earlier, she was sure of it. When he saw her looking, he took a step back with an expression of studied nonchalance on his face.

"How did that happen?" she asked, suspicious.

"I fell over the coffee table," he replied quickly. Too quickly. Definitely a lie.

Molly leaned over, lips pursed, and inspected the coffee table legs.

"What are you looking for?"

"Does the coffee table have fists?" She straightened up and cocked her head at him. "Or perhaps you fell into John's fist?"

He scowled. "It was from a fall!"

Molly folded her arms. "Sherlock, you know I can tell the difference, right? This is what I do for a living. And that—" she gestured toward his jaw. "—looks like a left hook."

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "It's not important," he said without making eye contact.

"Please tell me what happened."

"It's nothing, all right? I deserved it."

"You don't deserve to be hit. I'm serious!" she added at the incredulous expression on his face. "I don't care what you said. He doesn't have the right to hit you."

Sherlock pulled a face. "I'm infuriating." He sounded like he was quoting someone, and she had an idea whom.

"I lived with you and I managed never to hit you."

"There was that one time. . ."

Ok, that was unfair. "You picked my lock in the middle of the night! I thought you were a murderer!"

"And you hit me with a fry pan," he responded calmly. "Who keeps a fry pan in their bedroom?"

Molly shook her head. "You're lucky you're tall. I was aiming for the head."

Sherlock chuckled softly at that. "Right. I'm going to clean up this mess. Are you going to help me?"

So Molly did, of course. Even though she knew who had really made the mess. If Sherlock was willing to overlook the insult and injury, she supposed she would have to as well. But she couldn't help it that she was still angry on Sherlock's behalf.

* * *

When they had swept up the last of the glass, Molly fixed tea for them both and perched on the arm of the sofa while it cooled. It was getting past dinnertime, and she thought perhaps she should head home soon. Poor Toby was going to be quite put out if his dinner was late. The last time that had happened, he had given her the cold shoulder for the entire night.

Right after she sat down, Sherlock, who had been aimlessly pulling books off the shelves and replacing them in apparently random spots, came over and sat on the sofa next to her. He pulled his knees up and hugged them in a way that struck her as very childlike and endearing. And also seemingly impossible for a full-grown man. How _did_ he bend that way?

"How's your jaw?"

He shrugged and suppressed an obvious yawn. "It's fine."

"And how have you been sleeping?"

Another shrug, and this time his shoulders stayed pulled up tightly near his ears. Molly put her arm around him and slid her fingers into his hair, rubbing her fingertips firmly along his scalp. It was a dirty trick, she knew, but he looked so tense and exhausted, and she knew it would help him relax. She also knew that he both loved and hated it, which she found quite amusing.

His eyes slid closed. "Mm, that's not fair," he mumbled.

"What, that I've found your off switch?" she responded, trying but failing to keep the smile out of her voice. "I like to have a little power over you."

"With great power comes great responsibility," he intoned, leaning his head against her side.

Molly smirked and twisted her head to look down at him. "Oh? Who said that, Sherlock?"

"Voltaire," he responded without opening his eyes.

Molly snorted. "No, it was Uncle Ben!"

His frown deepened. "The chap on the rice?"

"No, you idiot!" She was laughing almost uncontrollably now. "Spiderman!"

"What?" he said fuzzily. "No, maybe it was Churchill."

"I'll prove it to you." She reached around him and grabbed John's laptop from the coffee table, removing her hand from his hair as she did so. While she was opening a web browser, she felt his hand fumble for hers and pull it back onto his head. "Oh, right." She had to turn her head a bit to hide her grin.

"What were we looking for again?" he prompted sleepily. Wiping the grin off her face, Molly started typing in the search box, one-handed. As soon as she typed in the "wh", Google started popping up suggestions. "What is the statute of limitations on kidnap?" "Who decides whether to press charges in a kidnap case?" "Who decides if parents are unfit?" "What is Stockholm Syndrome?" Those seemed very odd indeed, but she didn't pause to contemplate it further. Odd was pretty much par for the course at Baker Street.

Molly kept typing, one-handed, and quickly discovered that Sherlock was in fact right. However, when she turned to admit it to him, she realized that he had fallen asleep, with his head tipped back, mouth partway open. Ah, much better.

She closed John's laptop and scooted herself off the arm of the sofa, not worrying about being gentle with him. She knew that once he was asleep, he wouldn't wake for anything less than a category 5 hurricane; Sherlock Holmes didn't do anything by halves.

As soon as she removed her support, Sherlock shifted on the sofa and curled up with his head where she had been sitting, hand under his cheek. She would have found it sweet if she didn't know what a menace he was when awake. And what he would think if he knew she still went all gooey watching him sleep.

Molly grabbed a blanket and tossed it over him, then stood with her arms folded and chewed on her lip. She was trying very hard not to be angry with John on Sherlock's behalf. When Sherlock was dead, when he had sat—no, _huddled_ was a better word—on her sofa and cried himself out over John, she had realized two things: first, that he was a lot more fragile than he appeared, and second, that she no longer had a crush on him. She was no longer even "in love" with him. No, Molly Hooper was in much more trouble than that. She actually _loved_ him. Being "in love" with him meant she tried to get what she wanted from him. _Loving_ him meant giving him what _he_ needed. And if what he needed was for her to hold him together long enough to give him back to John in one piece, then that is what she would do. And so she did, putting him back together over and over, until the day he was ready to go back to John. And this is how John treated him in return.

Sighing, she grabbed her coat and headed out, thoughts turning toward dinner and her nice warm bed waiting for her at home. However, as she closed the door behind her and turned toward the stairs, she found John sitting on the bottom step, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, arms over his bent head. When the door clicked shut, he turned and quickly scrambled to his feet, back against the wall, swiping furiously at his wet face. The knuckles on his left hand were bruised and swollen. Oh.

Molly just stared at him silently for a moment. She was still angry with him for hurting Sherlock. Part of her thought someone should hold him accountable for that, since Sherlock apparently didn't intend to. But on the other hand, his shaky breathing and trembling lip told her that maybe he was feeling guilty enough. Molly sighed and tried to let the anger go. Whatever had happened between the two of them, John was obviously hurting too, apparently more than Sherlock was.

"Come on, let's go to Speedy's," she said quietly. When he didn't move, she reached out and looped her arm through his. "It's all right."

They sat in a booth in the back and Molly ordered coffee for them both, with cream and no sugar. For a long time John didn't say a word or even make a sound other than the occasional sniffle, only stared silently into his coffee cup with a sad expression on his face.

Finally, just as Molly was about to give up and call for the check, he spoke softly, his voice anxious. "Is he. . . all right?"

"Seems to be," Molly replied evenly. "He's not mad at you. Although perhaps he should be."

John gave a small nod in acknowledgment. His lower lip was trembling again, along with his hands, Molly noted. "I didn't mean to hurt him," he said to his coffee cup. "I feel terrible."

"He wouldn't tell me what's going on. What was the fight about? I know Sherlock can say some bloody awful things. . ."

"It wasn't his fault. It was me. I just. . .I don't know how to explain it. I don't even understand what's wrong with me."

"Try."

"I tried to explain it to Mary, but it only ended up making things worse. I don't think she ever wants to see me again." John's eyes filled up with tears again, and Molly felt a flicker of sympathy for him. She reached across the table and took his hand.

"Try again, with me," she said gently. "I'll help you."


	17. Meet the Parents, Take 3

**Chapter 17: Meet the Parents, Take 3**

* * *

_Big hands holding him down, pinching him. Bright lights in his eyes. He can't see the faces because they are wearing masks that cover everything but their eyes. He cries out but is ignored. _

_One of the masks has a clown face on it, with big red lips and a red nose. The clown face is grinning at him malevolently. A hand reaches out and shoves him into the water that suddenly surrounds him. He screams. A huge wave sweeps up and swallows him. Something falls from his hand. Something important. He opens his mouth to scream again but only gets a mouthful of seawater._

_(Repeat)_

_(Repeat)_

* * *

**New Text from: The Distraction  
**_Sherlock, it's Mary. Can you ask John to call me please?_

**Why don't you call him?**

_I've been trying to call him but he doesn't respond. Please just ask him to call me._

**He doesn't listen to me.**

_Yes he does. He thinks the sun rises and sets on your command. Tell him I'm not mad. I only want to talk._

**Clarification: he doesn't listen to me anymore. He has hardly spoken to me in days.**

_Sherlock, please._

**Tell him yourself.**

Sherlock dropped his phone on the table with a huff. He was used to being the cause of the drama at Baker Street, not the recipient of it. He wasn't going to allow himself to be dragged into John's romantic entanglements. Honestly, it was quite beneath him.

Ok, if he were being _entirely_ honest (which he rarely was), he would have to admit that he was completely out of his depth and had NO CLUE what to say or do in such a situation. No, it was much easier to pretend that he was simply above all such pettiness.

* * *

On Tuesday morning Sherlock met Mr and Mrs Paddington on the sidewalk in front of NSY. Mrs Paddington was wearing another god-awful flowered dress, and her hair was freshly dyed. For a moment Sherlock just stood and stared at them. Now that he knew who they really were, he could see the resemblance, in Mr Paddington's nose and posture, in the shape of Mrs Paddington's forehead. It was so obvious he couldn't believe he had missed it before.

"Mr Holmes, we're so glad you called us. I hope you have good news for us!" Mrs Paddington said with a bright smile, which faded when he didn't respond. "Mr Holmes? What happened to your face?"

"Oh—it's nothing. Tripped over the coffee table. Shall we go inside?"

"Why did you want to meet us at the police station?" Mrs Paddington asked breathlessly as they headed inside. "Has there been an arrest made?"

"No." Sherlock didn't elaborate. He checked the time on his phone. He had told John to meet them here at 10 (well, rather he had texted him, since John had barely spoken to him in the past three days). It was now five after, and there was no sign of him. Sherlock told himself firmly not to worry. John would show up. He had to.

As soon as they were seated, Sherlock blurted out, "I've found your son."

"What?" Both Mr and Mrs Paddington exclaimed together, and then both began firing questions at once. "Where is he?" "How?" "Where has he been?" "What happened to him?" "Is he all right?"

"Please! Sit down and I'll explain."

Their mouths both snapped shut like fish, and they lowered themselves back into their seats with matching anxious expressions on their faces. Mrs Paddington covered her mouth with a shaky hand.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Joh-David was taken by a couple who had lost their own son. They. . . they took good care of him. He was loved."

"Where is he?" Mr Paddington barked. "Where's my boy?"

"Well, you've actually already met him. He—he's my flatmate. You met him briefly when you came to my flat."

"What? That was him?"

"Yes, the DNA was a match." Sherlock opened his briefcase and pulled out the paperwork from the lab. He carefully smoothed it out and laid it in front of Mrs Paddington.

"And there is no doubt?"

"None. I found evidence at the Abersoch police station that put me in the right direction. The results are conclusive."

"Can we—can we see him?"

"Yes, he is willing to meet you. He is on his way here." I hope, Sherlock added mentally. Perhaps 'willing' was a bit too strong of a term for what John seemed to be feeling at the moment, but he hadn't said he had changed his mind.

Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket, two short buzzes. Text from John. He pulled the phone out and quickly scanned it. "In fact, he's here now. I'll just . . .have him come in, shall I?"

"Oh, yes, please! We've waited so long. We can't wait to meet him." Mrs Paddington's eyes were shining with excitement, hands clasped as if praying. Sherlock hesitated for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. He knew that whatever John was feeling about this meeting, it certainly wasn't excitement. If anything, it was dread. This could be a complete disaster. Sherlock couldn't help but feel a bit protective of his flatmate, knowing how precarious his emotional state had been lately.

"His name is John," he said after a pause. "He doesn't remember anything about his life before—before he was taken. He doesn't—he's not—Just call him John," he finished lamely.

"Oh. . . All right."

* * *

John was pacing the hallways of NSY, wondering which room Sherlock was in, and getting more and more frustrated, when Greg walked up, with a smile that dropped as soon as he spotted John's face.

"Hey, John, looking for Sherlock?"

"Yes. The git didn't see fit to tell me which room he was in."

"He's just down this hall. What's up today?"

"Sherlock didn't tell you?"

Greg shook his head as he led John down the corridor. "Just said he needed a room. Even said please." His face looked amused for a second, then he shot John an appraising glance. "Everything all right, John?"

"Yeah, fine." John tried to put on a neutral expression, but he was sure it came out as an unpleasant grimace. He quickly broke eye contact and focused on one of the many "motivational" posters on the wall.

"Because Sherlock seemed a bit. . .um—tense when he was here the other day. And then this morning, he had a—a. . ." Greg trailed off. When John looked back at him, he could see that Greg had spotted his bruised knuckles. He quickly shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

"Everything's fine, Greg. Can we go please? I'm late and Sherlock is expecting me."

"Yeah, Ok."

At the other end of the hallway, a door opened and Sherlock stuck his head out. When he spotted John, his face took on a strange expression. What did it mean? It looked almost like what John had seen on his face when they were standing in his parents' living room. The bruise on his jaw had ripened to a greenish-yellow in the past three days that they had been avoiding each other. The color almost perfectly matched John's knuckles.

Sherlock was holding the door open, silently waiting for John to join them. John swallowed hard and forced his feet to keep walking, like a man headed to the gallows, he thought wryly. When he reached the door, he hesitated. Was it too late to back out now? Yes, it was too late. He had promised Sherlock he would meet them, and it was time to keep his word.

John squared his shoulders and nodded at Sherlock, who stepped back to let him in. Sherlock's face was back to stone now, giving no hint of emotion. Clearly he was expecting John to soldier through this. An emotional display would only open him up to more ridicule. John carefully arranged his face to match Sherlock's.

John slipped past Sherlock and into the room. The two strangers waiting for him both stood when he entered, their faces expectant and hopeful. The first thing he noticed was the man's eyes, the exact color of his own, that blueish grey that was so different to the rest of his family. NOT his family, he reminded himself severely.

"Mr and Mrs Paddington," he said awkwardly.

"David!" Mrs Paddington exclaimed. She circled the table with a teary smile and held out her arms to hug him, which he accepted but did not return.

"It's John," came Sherlock's stern voice from behind him. "Remember?"

"Right, John. Of course." Her eyes filled with happy tears. "I'm just so happy to see you, darling." She grabbed his hand and didn't let go. John was feeling a bit claustrophobic in the small room, and the facts that the room was too warm, and both Mrs Paddington and Sherlock were standing between him and the door, were not helping.

Mr Paddington approached from the other side. "My boy," he said in a rough voice. John felt himself flinch at the familiar words coming from an unfamiliar mouth, even if that mouth did look quite a bit like his own. Mr Paddington held out his hand, and John shook it automatically. The hand was hot, like John's, which John found disconcerting.

"We've been waiting for this moment for so long." Mrs. Paddington's voice broke. She was rubbing John's arm with her other hand now, looking up into his face with clear adoration. John wondered if he was supposed to be feeling something right now, feeling the way she obviously did. Well, he didn't feel that way. In fact, he couldn't say he felt anything for them. All the physical contact and closeness from what were essentially strangers was making him anxious, which in turn made him feel guilty because he knew that his reaction was wrong.

"Mr and Mrs Paddington, please be seated," Sherlock said firmly. John felt Mrs Paddington tugging on his hand, pulling him over to the seat next to hers. Reluctantly he followed, and quickly found himself seated between his "parents", both of them sitting a little too close for comfort. Mrs Paddington still had a tight grip on his hand. Mr Paddington clapped him on the shoulder, and John tried not to flinch.

Sherlock was on the other side of the table, watching John closely. His face was a complete blank, but John could see that he was chewing the inside of his cheek. Was Sherlock anxious about this too? Why would Sherlock be anxious? Was he afraid that John would start yelling again? John was determined not to do that.

Conversation with the Paddingtons turned out to be exceedingly uncomfortable, at least from John's perspective. They asked him awkward questions about his family and upbringing, and he deflected them all. He was unwilling to confide in these strangers about the only parents he remembered.

After only about ten minutes, Sherlock broke into the conversation. "I think that's enough for today," he said tightly.

John took pains to hide his relief, even though what he was thinking was, God yes, please get me out of here. He glanced over at Sherlock and discovered that his lips were pressed tightly together and his eyebrows were tilted down in the middle. Sherlock was disappointed in him, of course, and he knew why. This meeting with the Paddingtons was not exactly the joyous reunion he had apparently hoped for.

"Oh, must we leave so soon?" Mrs Paddington exclaimed.

"Scotland Yard needs the use of their interrogation room, I'm afraid."

John caught a glimpse of something in Sherlock's eyes—he was lying, obviously, but the Paddingtons didn't appear to have caught on.

"When can we see you again, David?" she asked John desperately, grabbing his wrist. He disentangled himself with an effort. The word _never_ came to mind, but he didn't say that.

"I—I don't—"

"We'll be in touch," Sherlock interrupted. "Ready, John?"

Oh yes, definitely. John didn't care how angry Sherlock was with him, as long as he could get out of that room NOW.

"David, please, just a few more minutes!" Mrs Paddington's grip tightened on his wrist.

"Let go of me. . . please," John said in a taut voice.

"David!"

John shook off her hand. "I'm sorry, I've—I've got to go." He quickly escaped the room, with Sherlock following close behind.


	18. Complications

**Chapter 18: Complications**

They were both silent in the cab on the way back to Baker Street. It was not a comfortable silence, but John couldn't think of anything to say so he stared out the window without speaking. Occasionally he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Sherlock looking at him. He knew Sherlock was disappointed in him, but he didn't know how to fix that. He felt what he felt. Or rather didn't feel what he didn't feel. He had tried to be civil to the Paddingtons, but that's all it was. He certainly didn't feel any closeness with them. In fact, something about them made him uneasy but he didn't know why.

They were almost home when John's mobile buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and saw a text from Harry. Oh God.

_Mum called me. R U dumping us?_

And then a few seconds later: _I didnt kidnap U._

Less than a minute after that: _U dont want us now U found a diffnt family._

Seriously no more than thirty seconds later: _R U IGNORING ME?_

John's throat and chest felt tight. Of course Harry had to find out eventually, but he really didn't feel like dealing with her right now. He glanced up from his mobile to see Sherlock watching him with what looked like concern.

"Harry," he mumbled, shoving the phone into his pocket. She would have to wait. There was no way he was texting her back with Sherlock sitting right there.

When they got back home, John quickly escaped up the stairs to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. He didn't look back, because he knew he would see Sherlock watching him with that strange expression again, the one he couldn't figure out. He didn't have enough emotional reserves to deal with Sherlock right now; he was using them all to figure out how to deal with Harry, and everyone else in his suddenly expanded family. He had been _happy_ the way things were, dammit!

John stood just inside his door for a long moment, staring at the floor, while his phone continued to buzz intermittently in his pocket. Finally he sighed and abandoned the vain hope Harry would give up and stop texting him. He sat on the bed and responded.

**I don't know what I want, Harry. I need some time to think about this.**

_UR mad at me_.

**I'm not mad at you. Please give me time to think.**

_we r beter off w/out U anyway._

**I'm done with this conversation. Call me when you sober up.**

_FUCK U!_

John flung the phone onto the bed and leaped up. He needed to punch something, and since Sherlock wasn't handy, and Harry was too far away, he put his fist through the wall. He hated things being complicated, and it seemed that was what he was getting from all sides just now. Anger spent, he sank down to the floor next to the bed and took deep breaths to try to regain some emotional control. It wasn't like him to fly off the handle so easily. He didn't understand this anger, and it frightened him that he wasn't able to control it.

After a moment, he heard Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs, and then a quiet knock at the door.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Please leave me alone."

There was a long pause, and then Sherlock's voice, sounding small and uncertain. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, really. I just need some time to think."

Another pause. "All right." John waited until the footsteps retreated back down the stairs. Good. Sherlock's emotional state was another complication that he did not have the strength and control to deal with at the moment.

John examined his hand with clinical detachment. It was sore, but he could bend the fingers and the swelling was minimal, so apparently nothing was broken. His wall, on the other hand. . . well, he would have to fix that later.

As he sat there flexing his hand, his phone buzzed again, two short buzzes—Mary. She had been texting him and had even called him a couple of times, but he hadn't responded yet. Despite Molly's understanding and encouragement, he still hadn't quite worked out what to tell her. It was one thing to tell Molly, who he didn't have an emotional investment in. He didn't have to worry what Molly might think of him, because he knew where he stood with her—their friendship wasn't going away. With Mary, on the other hand. . . well, he was afraid that his feelings for her were deeper than hers for him, and that if he revealed too much, she would be scared away.

* * *

18 May, 2014

From: Anna Paddington

To: Sherlock Holmes

Subject: Please put us in touch with David

Dear Mr Holmes

Thank you so much for helping us find our son. You have no idea what it means to us to know that he is safe and well. We were dearly hoping to continue our contact with him. Can you please provide us with a phone number and email where we can reach him? It would be much appreciated.

Sincerely,

Anna Paddington

* * *

_Hands. Very white hands with long, thin fingers. He tries to run, but the hands are grabbing him, slapping and pinching him._

_Suddenly water closes over his head. A hand is holding him under. He can just make out the face, distorted—it is Sherlock. He tries to scream, but salt water fills his mouth and lungs. _

_(Repeat. Now it is always Sherlock holding him under.)_

* * *

20 May, 2014

From: Anna Paddington

To: Sherlock Holmes

Subject: Please put us in touch with David

Dear Mr Holmes

I am waiting for your reply to my email on Wednesday. I sincerely hope David was not too upset after our meeting. We desperately want to continue a relationship with him. Can you please tell him how much we love him and want to see him? We have missed so much of his life. We want to make the most of every moment from now on. If you are not able to give us his contact information, can you please give him my number and ask him to contact me? I would be very grateful.

Sincerely,

Anna Paddington

* * *

_There is a pillow over his face, pressing down. He can't breathe. He struggles and squirms free. Tries to run, but hands grab him and pull him back. He turns and sees a face covered in a clown mask. The clown is holding an enormous hypodermic needle. He screams and runs._

_A huge wave sweeps him off his feet. Drowning, choking. A hand holds him under._

* * *

21 May, 2014

From: Anna Paddington

To: Sherlock Holmes

Subject: Please put us in touch with David

Mr Holmes

I have made two attempts to contact you regarding our son. He is a member of our family and we should not be deprived of contact with him. Please let us know immediately when we will be able to talk to him. If I have not heard from you by tomorrow, I will be forced to take further action.

Sincerely,

Anna Paddington

* * *

Sherlock highlighted all the emails from Mrs Paddington and dragged them to the recycle bin. He had absolutely no intention of responding, after all, and he wasn't planning to mention them to John. As far as Sherlock was concerned, the Paddingtons had no right to have contact with John. They couldn't even get his name right! John didn't need people like that in his life.

Sherlock could hear footsteps above coming from John's room. He had barely seen or spoken to his flatmate in the four days since the awkward meeting at NSY. No arguments, no offers to go to the shops, nothing. When they ran out of milk and bread, Sherlock had gone shopping and replaced them, hoping that John would notice and thank him. But no, John had simply eaten them without a word. Sherlock was quickly running out of ideas for ways to make John happy. Perhaps John was right—his life HAD been better before Sherlock came back. Perhaps Sherlock was just a roadblock on the way to the happy life that John deserved. The thought twisted Sherlock's stomach and brought an uncomfortable lump back to his throat.

When he had been dead, he had had a lot of time to think, especially at night when he had been sleeping rough—well, "sleeping" was probably not the most apt description. More like stewing and shivering. Throughout those long, cold nights, the only thought that had sustained him was knowing that when this was over, he could go _home_. And home always meant John, who in his dreams would welcome him back with open arms. Never once had he thought that perhaps John would have simply. . . moved on and have no place for Sherlock in his new life.

Of course, after the initial punch to the nose, John had welcomed him back, but their relationship wasn't the same. Sherlock wasn't the same person he had been before, and he had come to realize John wasn't the same either. He was more guarded, less trusting, and some of steadiness Sherlock had loved about him was now missing. Sherlock felt its loss keenly. John had been his anchor in the storm, but now the anchor had broken free and Sherlock was adrift as well.

* * *

_Drowning again. A hand holding him under. Through the distortion of the water, he can see a face covered in a clown mask, but the eyes are unmistakably Sherlock's, the same blue-green as the ocean surrounding him._

_(Repeat)_

* * *

On Sunday morning, John woke with a start, thinking his alarm clock had somehow failed to ring and he was late to work. As he threw back the blanket, which had twisted itself around his legs, he realized that no, he didn't have a shift today. A whole day off. How lovely.

Oh. A whole day where he and Sherlock would once again tiptoe around each other without speaking. Not so lovely. His stomach hurt just thinking about it. John was not a complicated man. When he was hungry, he ate. When he was tired, he slept. If he loved someone, he told them so. He was kind to everyone simply because that was who he was. Simple and straightforward was how he liked things. He hated the fact that his life had gotten so bloody confusing lately. He didn't know how to deal with all of these complications.

Right, time to talk about this. It wouldn't do to get an ulcer. And maybe it was time to tell Sherlock about the nightmares too. He couldn't remember the last time he had gotten a restful night's sleep. He hoped Sherlock would have some insight into what was causing them, because John couldn't even think straight enough to do any sort of coherent analysis.

John tied on his dressing gown over his pyjamas and made his way down the stairs. He could hear the coffeemaker going in the kitchen so he headed there. When he came around the corner, he found Sherlock with his back to the door, filling two mugs with coffee. John leaned against the entryway and watched as Sherlock poured a dollop of milk in one and two spoonsful of sugar in the other. He gave both a stir, then turned and presented one to John with a serious expression. John took it uncertainly.

"Thanks. Can we talk?"

"Yes."

Oh. That easy? Ok then. John took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

A little crease appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows. "For what?"

"For hitting you, of course."

"No apology necessary. I deserved that."

"You don't deserve to be hit, Sherlock. I shouldn't have done it."

"That's what Molly said."

"And she was right. I'm also sorry for disappointing you."

"Whatever are you talking about? You haven't disappointed me."

"No? I saw the look on your face when I stomped out of the meeting with the Paddingtons. I didn't handle it well and you were disappointed in me."

The crease deepened. "I wasn't disappointed."

"Then what were you feeling? And don't say 'nothing.' That look meant something."

"I don't know what you're referring to."

John sighed. Maybe this conversation wasn't going to be so easy after all. "All right, fine." He sat down at the table and sipped his coffee while he considered what to say. Perhaps a different subject would get better results. "I've been having nightmares."

Sherlock abruptly jerked out the chair across from him and sat in it. He stared at John intently. "Go on."

"Um, well. . ."

"Come on, John. You've finally said something interesting. I need details."

"About drowning. Someone is holding my head underwater and drowning me."

"Who?"

"Different people. Sometimes it's my mum. Once it was Harry, I think. Sometimes it's. . .you."

"Intriguing. What else?"

"People in masks. Clown masks." John took another sip of coffee to hide his embarrassment. He had been terrified of clowns when he was small, but he hadn't thought of it for years. He had no idea why the old fear would come back now. It seemed so silly in the cold light of day.

When he looked up, Sherlock was watching him thoughtfully, eyebrows pulled together.

"What? Do you think that means something?"

"Yes."

"But what could it possibly mean? I didn't drown, remember? That was the real John Watson."

"The dream could have symbolic meaning."

"What sort of symbolic meaning? And clowns? Why clowns?"

"Have you ever had a frightening encounter with a clown?

"At a carnival when I was about five. Scared me out of my wits. I had nightmares for months. But I haven't thought about that for years."

"Perhaps it's a memory of something frightening, something else."

John shook his head. "No, it's the same dream I had when I was five. A bunch of people in clown masks holding me down. It's ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous, John. It's a memory. Some sort of trauma. I don't think you should go see the Paddingtons alone."

"What? That really is absurd! What could they possibly do to me? They've been looking for me for 40 years. They're not going to hurt me now they've found me."

"Don't contact them. It's not a good idea."

John set his cup down hard, sloshing the coffee onto the table. "I can take care of myself, Sherlock. I don't need you to tell me how to live my life." John abandoned his coffee on the table and headed into the sitting room. Sherlock followed, grabbing hold of his bicep and pulling him around.

"Stop being so bloody stubborn! I'm trying to protect you!"

"Let go of me."

"I don't want you to get hurt!"

"Oh, so you are the only one allowed to hurt me?" John yanked his arm from Sherlock's grasp, which had suddenly loosened. "I don't need any protection! I don't need you to mother me, Sherlock. I've already got two mothers, apparently."

"And both of them are complete rubbish!"

"Shut up, Sherlock! Just because your family was total shit doesn't mean mine is. Don't try to drag my family down to their level."

John's could feel his blood pressure rising. That same haze that had clouded his vision when he tried to talk to Mary was back, and it was making it very hard to be rational. Staring at Sherlock through the haze, he could barely make out the judgmental scowl on his face. "What is wrong with you? Why are you trying to take my family away?"

"I'm not! I just—I just—"

"I don't belong to you, Sherlock! I do have a life outside of you."

"I suppose you'd be happier if I just left then!"

John took a step back at the intensity in Sherlock's voice. It wasn't anger he heard, it was pure pain. Sherlock's lips were pressed firmly together and his chin was twisted, almost like he had looked on the roof, right before—right before-. "What are you on about? I don't want you to leave."

"That's what you said! You said you were better off before I came back!" A tear tracked its way down Sherlock's cheek, and his hand came up and quickly palmed it away.

John closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again and saw something different. He saw, suddenly, an insecure, hurt Sherlock who was just as afraid of loss as John was. "Sherlock, sit down."

Sherlock sat warily on the sofa, and John sat down beside him. Hesitantly, John reached out and gently took one of Sherlock's cool hands in his. For several minutes he said nothing, then he finally cleared his throat and said, "Sherlock, when you died, I-I fell apart for a while. I don't deal well with loss. For the first few weeks, I can't tell you how many times I sat in that armchair with my Browning on my lap, thinking how much easier it would be just to pull the trigger and be done with it. The only thing that stopped me was knowing Mrs. Hudson would have to clean my brains off the walls, and I couldn't do that to her."

John shook his head to clear away the mental cobwebs that image brought with it. "After a while things started to get better," he continued. "I started to live again. And I met Mary. Things were looking up for the first time in a long time."

Sherlock's head had come up and he was watching John's face carefully. His eyes were red but he wasn't crying anymore. "And then I came back."

"Yes, and it really threw me for a loop. I didn't know how to deal with it. I had a whole new life, and I didn't know how to fit you back into it at first. Then just when I thought I finally had it figured out, this happened. I feel like I've lost my whole family, and now I'm pretty sure I've lost Mary too. I can't lose anyone else. I definitely don't want to lose you again."

"You're not going to lose me, and you haven't lost Mary either. She wants to talk to you."

"How do you know?"

"She texted me asking me to have you call her. I told her you don't listen to me, but she was adamant."

"When was this?"

"Umm. . . a couple of days ago. She said she tried to reach you but you didn't respond."

"I didn't know what to say to her."

"Tell her what you just told me. Tell her you don't want to lose her. It—uh—it's good. Might work."

John considered. He didn't think it would be that easy, but it was worth a try. Mary was the best thing he had going right now, and if it was possible to keep her in his life, he was willing to risk it. "All right, I'll text her right now, OK?" He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed out a text, which he showed to Sherlock before he sent it.

**Let's have dinner on Tuesday. 6 pm, your place or Angelos?**

"Ok?"

"Yes, ok."

"You should ask Molly over to dinner on Tuesday."

"Why?"

"Well, I'll be out; you could have the flat to yourselves. You could check to see if maybe you were ready for her to have some. . . expectations. "

"And how would I do that, exactly?"

"You could kiss her. Girls like that sort of thing. I'm sure Molly would like it."

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, I'm sure she would. But then what?"

"Use your imagination, Sherlock. I'll be out the whole evening, so you'll have plenty of time to see where things lead."

Without pulling his hand away from John's, Sherlock felt around on the coffee table and came up with his mobile. John watched him with a half-grin, which Sherlock returned.

**Dinner on Tuesday at my place? Come at 5.**

John's grin widened and he thumped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Good show! Are you planning to fix her dinner? Don't make her bring takeaway, please."

While Sherlock was thinking about that, Molly's reply came through. _Sounds great. What can I bring?_

John took the phone from Sherlock's hand and tapped out a response.** Just a smile. I'll do the rest.**

"Oh? Are you planning to fix dinner for her?" Sherlock asked.

"No, you are. I'll teach you how to make roast lamb."

* * *

_He is standing on a sandy beach with the bright sun shining in his eyes. He can make out shapes, blobs, that might have been people, but everything is unclear. Someone approaches, and he can see they are wearing a clown mask. The person shoves him into the water. He tries to scream but gets a mouthful of salt. _

_(repeat)_

_(repeat)_

* * *

John worked a half-shift on Tuesday. It seemed half-shifts were all he could get lately, which wasn't helping his bank account situation. Sherlock wasn't home when he arrived, but the post was lying inside the mail slot, so he scooped it up and started sorting through it on his way up the stairs. Bill, bill (oops—that one was stamped "second notice"), bill, advert, advert. . . Hello, what's this?


	19. Deducing Sherlock

**Chapter 19: Deducing Sherlock**

* * *

Sherlock came home on Tuesday around three with his hands full of shopping, which he carried into the kitchen and dumped unceremoniously onto the kitchen table. The post was sitting on a corner of the table, so he picked it up and flipped through it—bill, bill (oops, that one was marked second notice—better put it where John would deal with it), advert, advert—booooring. He moved the post to the desk in the sitting room and returned to his bags of groceries. One bag, from the DIY store, contained a small piece of drywall, a putty knife, a jar of drywall compound, and a piece of mesh. Sherlock had done some research, and he hoped he would be able to repair the hole in John's wall without making too much of a mess of it. The other bags contained ingredients to make dinner for Molly.

The bag from the DIY store he dropped in the corner to deal with later. The ingredients for dinner he removed from the bags and set out on the table: a nice piece of lamb for roasting, some spices in small red and white tins, a bag of red potatoes (need to look up how to make mashed potatoes), and fresh green beans that he had no idea how to prepare. At least he had a couple of hours before Molly was due to pull everything together. If he hurried, he might be able to get the hole in John's wall patched and dinner started before she arrived.

* * *

Dinner turned out to be a mixed bag. The roast was excellent, thanks to John's tutelage, but the mashed potatoes had lumps that no amount of beating could break up, and whilst he had been fighting with the potatoes, the beans had overcooked and turned limp and lifeless. And of course he hadn't even thought about gravy until Molly had mentioned it. Luckily Molly knew how to make gravy from scratch using butter and flour (the latter borrowed from Mrs Hudson, of course. Molly sent Sherlock down, measuring cup in hand, like a schoolboy to fetch it). Of course, Sherlock could describe in detail the chemical formulas involved, but it surprised him how much better it tasted than the gloop from the tin. And the best part was the glimpse of satiny black brassiere he had gotten when she leaned over the oven to take the roast out. It looked very silky, like it would be quite nice to touch. Pity he was unlikely to ever get his hands on it.

They ate at the table, which Sherlock had cleared of his equipment. Molly had seemed suitably impressed to see it looking so tidy, which was exactly the effect he had been aiming for.

While they ate, they talked. Or rather, Molly talked and Sherlock half-listened while he watched her lips. She was telling him something about a corpse that had been fished out of the river yesterday.

"When I cut open his abdomen, guess what I found inside?"

Oh, that was a question. Her eyebrows were up. She was probably waiting for an answer. What was the question again? He settled for a vague, "Hmm?"

"Maggots! He had been dead at least two days _before_ he went into the water!" She scooped up mashed potatoes and tucked them daintily into her mouth.

Sherlock found himself grinning fondly at her. What other woman would consider bloated corpses and maggots appropriate topics for dinner conversation? This was precisely why he had chosen to go to her so many times instead of hiding out in the safehouses Mycroft had arranged. The conversation was better; he could come and go as he chose; she fixed him food but didn't badger him to eat it; if he wanted to sit up all night and stare at the wall, she would just go off to bed and leave him to it. He had come to the startling realization that Molly Hooper was actually his ideal woman, which was the reason he had become so fascinated with her lips. The thought of kissing those lips was becoming more and more appealing.

Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket. He slipped it out just far enough to see that he had a text from John. It only said, _he_. He texted back, **He who?** and slid it back into his pocket. When he tuned in again, the topic had apparently changed. Something about John?

"He told me what was going on."

Definitely about John. "He did? I mean, yes, of course he did."

"He said he couldn't figure out what you were thinking."

"About what?"

"About his family. He thought you were angry with him."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I wasn't angry with him! What made him think that?" he demanded.

Molly smirked. "Maybe that expression you're making? Or perhaps that tone of voice."

"But I didn't. . .I wasn't mad at him. I was angry with his parents. Both sets of them. A bunch of tossers, the whole lot."

"He said you didn't seem to want him to have a happy family," Molly was speaking slowly, seemed to be choosing her words carefully. "Yours wasn't happy, was it?"

"You've met my brother." Feeling uncomfortable, Sherlock took a last bite and picked up his plate to start clearing up.

"Oh, yes, I have." Molly followed him to the sink with her plate.

Sherlock kept his back to her, scraping the rest of his lumpy potatoes into the rubbish bin. "He's not even the worst of the lot," he said quietly.

Molly didn't respond to that. When Sherlock turned around, she suddenly had two wine glasses in her hand—Sherlock didn't see where they came from; he hadn't even known they _had_ wine glasses—and was filling them from the bottle she had brought (apparently "Just a smile" included wine in her book). She held one up to Sherlock with her eyebrows raised. An invitation to continue, not a demand as some would have done. He could choose. And so he decided to tell her a little more. Only a little.

"My father—well, leaving was probably the kindest thing he ever did. The unkindest thing was leaving me to the tender mercies of _Mummy_."

"Oh. That sounds unhappy indeed." Molly agreed. Sherlock took his glass and moved to the sitting room, and Molly followed, sitting neatly at one end of the sofa. Again, an invitation to join her, but not a demand. Sherlock considered. He could sit in John's chair, across from her, where he could observe her but was too far away to touch (symbolic of his whole life, that). Or he could sit beside her on the sofa. Within reach. Literally and symbolically.

He chose the sofa.

Molly took a sip of her wine, watching him appraisingly over the rim of her glass. "You're jealous of John," she said suddenly.

"What? No I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You're jealous that John has two families fighting over him, and no one wants you."

Ouch. Knife to the heart. "That's not very. . . kind."

She shook her head. "I'm just saying what you think."

"No I don't," he responded immediately.

"Yes. You do," she said in a tone that brooked no disagreement. Was she right? Maybe. He thought back to the moment John had walked into his parents' house arm in arm with his mum. The house may have been humble, ordinary (Sherlock's mummy would have sniffed and said "How dreadfully common."), but what it contained was anything but ordinary. John was _loved_. It was obvious in the pleased smile on his mum's face and in the photos on the walls and mantelpiece. Sherlock was sure there were no photos of him and Mycroft being pulled in a wagon, or riding on a sled with his father, because those things had never happened to him. He hadn't had a name for the feeling that bubbled up inside him at the time, looking at those photos, but jealous might be it. But there was something else, too.

"You might be right," he admitted finally, "But mainly I think—John had something special, with his family. Something I never had. I didn't want to—to screw that up for him. And I knew that was about to happen; there was nothing I could do to _stop_ it happening. And it was going to be my fault. I didn't want to hurt John again."

"You care about John."

"Yes, but I seem to keep pushing him away. The same I do with everyone. Even when I don't want to, I can't seem to stop myself."

Molly set her wine glass on the table and turned a pretty smile on him. "So, what are you going to do about that?"

Another invitation. While he considered it, he observed Molly. Her eyes, sparkling at him. Her shy smile. Her hair—she had left it down, and a curl lay on her shoulder. A very nice curl. He could touch that curl, he knew. She would let him.

Molly shifted on the sofa to face him with her knees pulled up, and tucked her stockinged feet under his thigh. When she touched him, he felt a longing he didn't recognize. He couldn't even categorize this feeling, much less control it. It made his heart pound and his mouth go dry. Before he could analyze the longing into oblivion, he carefully stretched out his hand, caught the curl and wound it around his finger.

"You said I think no one wants me, but. . .I think I do have someone who wants me. I have John, and—and you." But did she still want him? He wasn't sure. When she didn't respond right away, that feeling of longing turned into a knot of tension in his belly.

"Yes, I do," she said softly. Her lips curved up into a smile that took his breath away. He had to do it. Expectations be damned. He leaned in and kissed her, lightly at first, then when he felt her respond, he slipped his hand behind her neck and captured her lips more deeply. Oh, that felt good. Better than a shoulder rub, even better than having her run her fingers through his hair.

Without breaking the kiss, Sherlock slid his hand across Molly's shoulder, pushing open the collar of her blouse. Her skin was soft and smooth under his fingertips. Just a little bit further and he'd be able to touch the silky strap of the bra he had glimpsed earlier.

Suddenly he felt her hand come up and grab his fingers. At the same time, she broke the kiss and sat back, breathing hard. Her pupils were huge and he could count her pulse jumping in her throat.

"Um, Sherlock?" she said in a quavering voice. Oh, shit, had he messed up? Had he misread her? Had he waited too long? His uncertainty must have showed on his face, because she wrapped her fingers around his and said, "It's ok, just. . .slow down a little."

"Oh. Right. Ok."

She was chewing her lip now. "How far are you planning to take this?"

"How far. . .um, how far do you want to take it?"

"I'm not just talking about tonight, Sherlock. I mean, is this what you really want? Do you want. . . me?"

"Yes," he responded without hesitation.

"Long term?"

What was she on about? Of course long-term! He was incapable of any other type of relationship. Once he decided to trust someone, to let them in, there was no going back as far as he was concerned. And his decision to let Molly in had happened a long time ago, when he had confessed he wasn't who she thought he was, and she had stayed and helped him anyway.

Uh-oh, he had taken too long to answer, because now she was looking at him with an uncertain expression on her face.

"Molly, 'long-term' is all I do."

"You're not going to get bored with me and take off?"

"I may get bored with circumstances, but never with people. I'm afraid you're. . . stuck with me."

She was smiling now, and the smile was so amazing that he had to kiss it, just to know what it felt like to kiss a smile. He could feel her lips curve upwards under his. Yes, that was very nice. Perfect, in fact. Just like the rest of her. Perfect. Suddenly he wanted to scientifically explore every inch of that perfection, starting with her neck and shoulders. His hand traveled down to her fragile collarbone and gently stroked the length of it, pushing the collar of her blouse aside. One-handed he twisted open the top button on her blouse.

"Sherlock?" she said, with their lips still pressed together.

"Hmm?"

"Do you have any. . . condoms?"

"Oh." He broke the kiss and sat back. "Um—no."

Molly frowned. She sat up and started rebuttoning her blouse. "Um, I think we should—"

"But John has some!"

The frown turned into a grin. Yes, that was much better. He liked that grin. That grin was nice to kiss. "I know just where he keeps them."

Sherlock hopped to his feet and took the stairs two at a time up to John's room.

* * *

As soon as Sherlock was out of sight up the stairs, Molly leaped to her feet and did a silent fist pump in the air. Sherlock Holmes had kissed her! Sherlock Holmes was going upstairs to find a condom! Sherlock Holmes had said he loved her! Oh, wait, had he actually said that? Not in so many words, but that was what he meant, right? RIGHT! Sherlock Holmes loved her! Victory dance! Sherlock Holmes had—

Her celebration was interrupted by the buzzing of a mobile phone set on vibrate. Who could be calling her now? She checked the end table, where both of their phones lay side by side. Oh, not her phone; it was Sherlock's. The Caller ID said:

**Incoming call from:  
****The Distraction**

The Distraction? Who was that? "Sherlock?" she called up to him, but he didn't answer. Must not be able to hear her in John's room. Still looking up the stairs after Sherlock, Molly picked up the phone and pressed the "answer" button. "Hello?"

"Oh, hi, um. . ." A woman's voice. "I'm trying to reach Sherlock Holmes. Do I have a wrong number?"

"Oh, no, this is his phone. Who's this?"

"This is Mary. I'm his flatmate's girlfriend—"

"Oh! Hi, Mary, this is Molly."

"Hi Molly. Are you at their flat? Is John there?"

Molly's brow furrowed. "No, he—Sherlock said he was out with you."

"Well, I was expecting him at six, but he hasn't arrived and he didn't answer his phone."

Just then, Molly heard Sherlock's footsteps coming down the stairs, much more slowly than he had gone up. When he finally came around the corner, he was carrying not the small foil-wrapped package she was expecting, but an envelope.

* * *

If I get a moment free, I might have the next chapter up by Friday, but don't hold your breath. . .


	20. Two Pots of Tea

**A/N: Thanks so much to all you fantastic readers and reviewers. I really appreciate it! If you have a minute, you might want to go read my Sherlock/Molly Christmas one-shot, "What Child is This?". It's a happy little story (NOT). You can find it on my profile. Thanks!**

**It might be a while before the next chapter comes out, because I haven't finished writing it yet! I'm hoping to get this story all finished and published before the new year. Two or three chapters left to go.**

* * *

**Chapter 20: Two pots of tea**

* * *

**(Time to rewind about six hours)**

* * *

John flipped through the post (remember?) on his way up the stairs. Bill, bill (oops, second notice on that one), bill, advert, advert. . .hello, what's this? A slim envelope, with his name written on the front in flowery handwriting. He checked the return address:

Ms. Sylvia Paddington  
511 Crispin Mews  
London, England

Sylvia Paddington? Oh! His sister—his real sister, rather. Huh.

He dropped the rest of the post on the kitchen table and used the knife in the mantel to open the envelope. It contained an A-4 piece of paper, which he unfolded and read.

**21 May, 2014**

**Dear John**

**I don't really know how to start this letter, so I will begin by introducing myself. I am your older sister, Sylvia. I was so pleased to hear that you had been located. I found out just today from Mother that you had been found safe and sound. What a happy ending to 40+ years of wondering and grief!**

He quickly scanned the rest of the letter. It contained tantalizing hints about the history of the family, mentions of his early childhood and her memories of him. He suddenly found himself curious to know more. If, as Sherlock suspected, there was something behind his nightmares, he needed to know what it was before making any decisions.

In the second paragraph, he found a sentence about her mother—well, his mother as well, he supposed-Apparently she had been trying to reach him via email? He had never gotten any emails that he knew of. He read further.

**My mother emailed Mr. Holmes several times asking for your contact information but never received a reply. I would not blame you if you chose not to contact them, but I hope you will give me a chance to get to know you. . .**

Sherlock had been getting emails from his mother and never told him? Dammit! He thought they had come to some sort of understanding, but apparently not. He did not understand why Sherlock was trying to keep him away from his family. He could handle himself; he certainly didn't need any protection from Sherlock. It was rather the opposite way around, most of the time anyway.

In the third paragraph of the letter he found a phone number and impulsively decided to call it. He needed more information before he could decide if he wanted to have anything more to do with the Paddingtons, and this woman, his sister, would be a good inside source. Before he could change his mind, he pulled out his phone and dialed. A woman answered on the second ring.

"Hello? Who's there?"

"This is. . . John. Have I reached Sylvia?"

"Oh, John! I'm so glad you called!

Before John knew it, he was agreeing to come for tea that very afternoon. He figured he could make it a short visit. His dinner date with Mary would give him a good excuse to leave early, and if he wanted to, he could arrange another visit later. Before he left, he entered the address into his phone and tucked the letter into the drawer of his bedside table under some books. It would probably be better if Sherlock didn't know where he was going—fewer questions, fewer complications.

A half hour later he found himself on a crowded bus heading north up Finchley Road, with the city quickly giving way to suburbs: neat single-family homes, low-rise flats and duplexes in brick and white-washed stucco.

The bus let him off a block from his destination, on Child's Way. He was happy to walk the rest of the way, as it gave him a few minutes alone to gather himself before he met his sister. He hoped it wasn't too awkward. From her letter and her voice on the phone, she had sounded pleasant enough. Just knowing that the parents didn't trust her had the contrary effect of making John trust her more. The fact that he knew she didn't get on with the mother gave him hope that perhaps she would be willing to be honest with him, as he didn't feel he would get any straight answers from Mr and Mrs Paddington. He needed more information about the family before he could decide if he wanted to have them be any part of his life, and he was counting on Sylvia to give him that information. And even if she didn't, well—he didn't think she could be any worse than the sister he had grown up with, could she?

511 Crispin Mews was a smaller brick home wedged in between two multi-unit buildings. The grounds and building were well taken care of, with a curving walkway leading through a small garden out front up to a tiny porch. It didn't look too intimidating. In fact, it rather reminded him of the house he had grown up in. John squared his shoulders and pressed the doorbell.

The door was opened momentarily by a woman with short, straight blond hair shot with gray. She was about John's height but at least two stone heavier. She was neatly dressed, although she had apparently inherited her sense of style from her mother. Her eyes were muddy blue, like John's, and her mouth mirrored his as well. As soon as she saw him, her lips curved up and her eyes crinkled into a familiar smile—John had seen it many times in photos of himself. She didn't look so bad, despite Sherlock's fears. He found himself returning the smile and felt some of the tension draining away.

"John! Welcome!" she greeted him enthusiastically.

"Hello, Sylvia," he replied awkwardly. "Nice to meet you."

"Come on in." She stepped back and let him into the house, closing the door quietly behind him. The entryway and sitting room were cluttered with knick knacks and kitschy souvenirs from tourist attractions in and around London. Everything was perfectly arranged and there wasn't a speck of dust on anything. The room contained a bit too much in the way of flowers and pink for John's taste, but he supposed it suited a single woman of Sylvia's age. He wondered how many cats she had.

"I'm just making tea. Please, have a seat," she said pleasantly and headed down a hallway that presumably led to the kitchen.

"Oh. All right." John settled himself onto the overstuffed sofa, which sunk in a good six inches. A patchwork-colored tabby cat emerged from under the sofa and jumped in his lap. After he had gotten over his surprise, he stroked it tentatively while he looked around, and the cat rewarded him with a soft purring sound.

There was a book sitting on the end table face-down, with a frilly pink bookmark sticking out of the top. Curious, John picked it up and flipped it over. The title read "Healing the Child Within." Ooo-kay. From where he was sitting, he could see that the bookshelves lining the walls were stuffed to overflowing, mostly with romance novels and self-help books, all neatly arranged by category and lined up alphabetically by author.

John heard Sylvia coming back and guiltily dropped the book back onto the end table. He didn't know why he felt guilty for picking up the book. It's not like she was trying to hide it, but he didn't want her to think he was prying.

"Here we are," Sylvia said cheerfully as she entered the room with a silver tray. John scooted the cat off his lap and helped her settle it onto the coffee table. There were two teapots, one blue and one green, each with a matching teacup; and a plate of shortbread biscuits. "I hope you like Earl Grey. I've made herbal for myself—can't have caffeine because of my heart."

"Oh? You have a heart condition?"

"Yes, Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. Our father has it too. You should get yourself checked." She poured some tea from the blue floral pot into the blue floral cup and handed it to John.

"I've been checked, when I entered the military. Clean bill of health."

"That's good news," Sylvia said as she poured herself a cup of tea from the green pot. She added a spoonful of sugar and a generous dollop of cream to hers and stirred it, then tapped the spoon fussily on the edge of the cup and laid it on a napkin. "With our family history, you're lucky to be so healthy."

Ah, information! Exactly the opening he had been hoping for. John took a swallow of his tea and asked quickly, "What all is in the family history?"

"Oh, that's right, you don't know any of this, do you? Well, there's kidney disease of course. Adam, you know. And then Daddy and I have hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Mummy has glaucoma. And grandmother died of colon cancer in her fifties. I've been getting annual colonoscopies since age 35. Have you had a colonoscopy yet?"

"Uh, no, not yet."

"Might be a good idea to start on that this year."

"Oh. I'll consider that."

"And then I've suffered from eczema since childhood. Mummy was always telling me to stop scratching. And all sorts of gastrointestinal issues as well."

John didn't know what to say to that, so he just took another gulp of his tea. Sylvia certainly didn't seem reluctant to talk. In face, quite the opposite—she seemed eager to tell him everything, good and bad. He was sure he could use this trait to gain some insight into the Paddingtons.

"Can you tell me more about your—our parents? Not just medical history, I mean what the family was like, what your life was like."

"I'd rather start by having you tell me about your life, then we can talk about my family. You were in the military?"

"Oh, yes. Military doctor. Served in Afghanistan."

"You're a doctor? What sort?"

"Yes, mostly locum work, family practice, pediatrics. Whatever I can get."

"I see." She said. For just a second, her lips were pressed together and her nostrils flared a little, then the odd expression was replaced by a tight smile. The people who kidnapped you—what were they like?"

John was a bit taken aback. He hadn't intended to share anything about his family, and he didn't like her calling them kidnappers, although he supposed that label was technically correct. However, it seemed that some amount of quid pro quo was needed here in order to gain the information he wanted.

"What do you want to know?"

"How did they treat you? Did they keep you locked up?"

"N-No, not at all. They treated me like their own child."

"Really?" She sounded—maybe—disappointed? "Did you try to get away from them?"

"I don't really remember. I don't remember anything from my life before I was—kidnapped."

"No? You didn't remember our parents, or me?"

"No, nothing at all." John awkwardly drained his cup, and Sylvia immediately refilled it and poured in some cream.

"Did they mistreat you?" Her voice had a slight edge to it that raised John's hackles a bit.

"No, they took good care of me."

"So everything was perfect for you then? Sunshine and lollipops with your new family?"

"Not perfect," John replied quickly. "But it was fine. My family was happy."

Sylvia's lip curled and her eyes grew hard, glittering as she carefully poured herself more tea with brisk, precise movements. She was angry, John realized. But angry about what? That he had had a good life? Perhaps that his life with the Watsons was better than hers had been with the Paddingtons?

"What's the problem?" He said after a moment. "I didn't ask to be kidnapped." His face was starting to feel too warm and the tips of his ears were on fire. He took the last swallow of his second cup of tea and set the cup down, almost missing the saucer. Why was it suddenly so stifling? Had she turned the heat up?

Sylvia set down her cup too and leaned in, invading his space. "Do you know why they had you?"

Uncomfortable, John sat back a little. "N—no."

"For Adam. Everything was all about Adam."

"What do you mean?" He could feel the beads of perspiration starting on his forehead. The room had definitely gotten warmer in the past few minutes.

"He needed a kidney. I wasn't a match. Not that I would have given him a kidney anyway. So they had you. For _spare parts_."

What? John though fuzzily. What on earth was she talking about? "Wha-?"

"You were a match. Their _precious_ Adam would be saved," she sneered.

John attempted to process this new bit of information, but the pieces weren't coming together. The only coherent thought he had was, that explains the masks and white coats in his nightmares. Doctors. And then the pieces slid apart again. Nothing was making much sense.

Sylvia leaned in again, and this time her face was a distorted version of his, like looking into a funhouse mirror. "I thought I got rid of you," she hissed.

Huh? Wait, what?

"I had met a friend. My first ever friend. All I wanted to do was play with her. But _Mummy_ said I had to watch you."

John had a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was really going in the wrong direction. He realized he had slid down a little on the sofa and attempted to push himself up straighter, but he couldn't quite seem to get his hands to obey him. They felt all shaky and weak.

Sylvia continued in a conspiratorial tone. "I waited until no one was watching, then I pushed you under the water until I thought you were dead."

John was really starting to panic now. The hand on his head, in his nightmare-it was Sylvia's. He had to get away from her. When he tried to stand up, he discovered he couldn't move his legs, could barely even draw air into his lungs. His eyes slid desperately away from her face to the two teapots on the table. _Poison_. She had poisoned him. Oh God. She was insane, wasn't she? She had to be. She had tried to kill him almost forty years ago, and now she was finally going to succeed.

"The best part was, by killing you, I was rid of both of you. Adam died because he didn't get his _spare part_." There was a look of grim triumph on her face which disappeared almost immediately, to be replaced by an angry scowl. "But it didn't matter anyway, because my parents were too obsessed with finding you to care about me at all."

While she was talking, John realized he could move his fingers on his left hand a little. Carefully he dug in his pocket and slid out his phone. He fumbled with the buttons in an attempt to text Sherlock. As soon as he had typed in the first couple of letters, Sylvia noticed what he was doing and grabbed the phone from his hand.

"Uh-uh-uh, little brother," she chided. John wasn't sure if he had hit send or not, and even if he had, he didn't know if the message would make any sense, as he couldn't exactly see properly.

"You should never have been born," she hissed in his ear. Her voice sounded tinny and far away. And then there was nothing, nothing, nothing. . .

* * *

**(back to the present)**

Sherlock stopped on the stairs when he saw Molly with his phone in her hand. Was it John calling? Oh, God, he hoped it was John calling.

Molly looked up and put her hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Mary," she said quietly. "John didn't show up for their date. She doesn't know where he is."

"I do," Sherlock said flatly. He had failed. He had tried to protect John but the letter in his hand proved that he had failed miserably. Hurriedly he crossed to the sofa and opened John's laptop. That research he had considered unimportant before suddenly seemed very important now.

He did a few quick searches on Sylvia Paddington, and almost immediately came up with a news article from nearly ten years prior, about a fiancé gone missing weeks before the wedding. He was aware that Molly was standing behind him, reading over his shoulder.

"Is that—John's real sister?" she asked in a quiet, hesitant voice.

"Yes." Quickly he scanned the article, growing more and more alarmed. Even though Sylvia Paddington was never under suspicion, and there was no evidence the fiancé was even dead, Sherlock's mind had leaped to the obvious conclusion. "We have to go," he barked out urgently, mentally berating himself for not having done his due diligence regarding the sister weeks ago. His stupid lapse may have cost John his life.

He heard Molly's quiet voice behind him, talking to Mary on the phone, but he was hardly listening. He launched himself off the sofa and grabbed both of their coats off the rack. "Molly, we have to go _now_!"

She traded him his phone for her coat and quickly shoved her arms through the sleeves. Digging into the pocket, she pulled out her keys. "We can take my car."


	21. Blood, Sweat, and Vomit

**A/N: Not entirely happy with this chapter, but I wanted to go ahead and post it before the new year. I hate writing action. It's so hard to make it flow smoothly and not sound choppy. Only one or possibly two chapters left to go. Coming down the home stretch!**

**I love your reviews. They make my day! If you get a chance, you could go to my profile and read my little Christmas one-shot, What Child is This? Just sayin'. . .**

* * *

**Chapter 21: Blood, Sweat, and Vomit**

* * *

Molly was driving too slowly. Far too slowly and cautiously. It shouldn't take so long to make a right turn. Sherlock was wedged into the passenger seat of the little Fiat 500 with his knees practically touching his chin. "Faster!" he urged as she took yet another corner at a stately speed.

"I'm going as fast as I can," she shot back. "It's not my fault there's traffic. Why don't we call 999?"

"And say what? My friend went to see his sister and now he's not answering his phone? And even if they believed us, if the police show up with sirens wailing, it will put John's life in further jeopardy!"

"Well, did you try calling John then?"

"No! Mary already tried and he didn't answer. If his phone rings too many times, she'll know we're on to her."

"But Sherlock, we don't really even know if there's any problem. Maybe his phone battery died."

"He missed his date with Mary."

"Maybe he lost track of time. Maybe—"

Sherlock cut her off. "He didn't lose track of time. He's in danger."

Molly signaled a right turn and came to a stop to yield to an oncoming car. "That's it, let me drive!" Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, you cannot possibly drive this thing! You wouldn't fit!"

"Yes, I can! Get out!"

"Fine!" Molly completed the turn and pulled over. As soon as the car had slowed down enough, Sherlock flung open the door and started unfolding himself out of the passenger seat. By the time he had untangled his knees from the dashboard, Molly was already standing next to the passenger side of the car, waiting impatiently for him to finish getting out so she could slide in.

Sherlock quickly discovered that he could indeed drive a Fiat 500, with the seat pushed all the way back and the steering wheel tilted up as far as it would go. As soon as he had the seat adjusted properly, he whipped the car back out into traffic, cutting off a lorry and earning himself a long, irate honk. Molly hung onto the grab bar as he weaved from lane to lane to get past traffic, her mouth pressed into a tight line.

It still took far too long to reach Crispin Mews, but when they finally did, Sherlock pulled the car over a half-block from their destination and yanked up the handbrake. He leveraged himself out of the car and headed up the street, tucking the keys into his pocket as he did so, counting on Molly to follow. After the first few steps, he felt her presence behind his shoulder, then her hand slid into his. Her hand was cool and shaky, but when he shot a glance at her, her face showed nothing but grim determination.

Sherlock stuck to the edge of the sidewalk on the way to the house—not noticeably so, but just enough to stay out of the line of sight of the windows of their target. To Molly's credit, she stayed close and didn't say anything. Just before they reached the end of a row of hedges beside the walkway, Sherlock turned to Molly.

"You wait here."

"No."

"Then wait in the car."

"No, I'm coming in with you."

"It's not safe."

"I know. That's why you need me with you."

"Molly. . ."

"I'm coming with you."

Sherlock huffed through his nose in exasperation. Stubborn woman! "Fine!" he hissed. "Just stay close to me."

"I'm planning on it."

Sherlock didn't like it one bit. He needed to be able to move quickly, and Molly would only slow him down, but it would take time to convince her to stay behind, and he didn't have that time. Tightening his grasp on Molly's hand, he headed up the curving walkway, making sure to stay out of sight of the windows. The light was on in the sitting room that was visible from the front window, but he didn't see anyone in the room. At the door, he silently tried the knob. Locked.

"She's home," Molly whispered in his ear. When he turned a questioning eye on her, she pointed up. "Porch light's off. A single woman would turn the porch light on if she were going to be gone in the evening."

Sherlock dropped Molly's hand, reached into his pocket and pulled out his lockpicking tools. The doorknob was a British Standard Asec sash lock—shouldn't be too hard to open. While he worked, he noticed that Molly had turned a little and was using her body to block what he was doing from view of anyone who happened to be passing on the street. Good girl. Maybe she would come in handy after all.

It only took him twelve seconds to open the lock, a new personal best. He smirked in satisfaction, but the smirk dropped immediately when he eased the door open and spotted John's black jacket on the coat rack next to the entryway. A tiny start from Molly told him she had recognized it too.

Sherlock paused in the doorway to ease John's Browning out of his inside pocket. There was a small gasp from Molly, and when he turned to look at her, she was staring at the gun in trepidation.

"Where did you—" she began in a whisper, but he put his finger to his lips and mouthed Shhhh. No time for questions. She rolled her eyes, but when he put out his arm to pull her behind him, she went without a fuss. He felt her grab a fistful of the back of his coat and follow him through the empty sitting room.

Ignoring her as best he could, Sherlock focused on what he could deduce from the room. Cluttered with knickknacks, but everything lined up perfectly straight, perfectly matching, and completely dust-free. Spoke to obsessive-compulsive disorder. He sniffed. Some sort of acrid stench hung in the air—vomit? Two pots of tea on the tray on the coffee table sat with a matching cup for each. The blue cup, with residue of tea in the bottom, perched half-on the saucer, askew. That one must have been John's—a woman such as Sylvia Paddington would never have left the cup off the saucer. The green one half-full, with pink lipstick on the rim. She must have been in a hurry or she'd have wiped it away.

Sherlock laid his hand on the green teapot—it was cold. Scanning the room, he spotted something that made a hard knot form in his stomach: drag marks on the otherwise pristine white carpet, leading toward the back hall.

* * *

Molly didn't spot the marks in the carpet until Sherlock pointed them out—twin lines where the nap had been disturbed, like someone had been dragging something heavy, but what? She turned back in time to catch the look on Sherlock's face. She had seen that look before, when she had told him how one of Moriarty's men had showed up at her door and threatened her. It was murderous rage, Sherlock-style. Suddenly she saw what he did: the heavy thing being dragged was _John_.

She followed Sherlock down the hallway a few steps until she could see around the wall into the kitchen. Sherlock started to continue down the hallway, but Molly tugged on the back of his coat and pulled him back toward the kitchen. She didn't fancy going into there unarmed, and she had spotted a likely-looking fry pan hanging on a hook over the stove. He shook his head at her vehemently, but she nodded back just as vehemently, pointing toward the kitchen. When he seemed disinclined to move, she let go of his coat, quickly tiptoed into the kitchen, and noiselessly unhooked the fry pan.

She turned back to find him smirking at her. Resisting the urge to stick out her tongue at him, she simply shrugged, hoisted the fry pan over her shoulder, and fell into line behind him again. Together they crept silently down the hall. After a couple of meters, Sherlock suddenly stepped to the side, pulling Molly with him just in time to avoid putting her foot into a pile of sick. Molly's eyes widened in alarm.

All the doors were closed, but a thin line of light showed under the second door on the left. Sherlock paused next to the door, more abruptly than Molly was expecting. After she bumped into him and nearly lost her balance, she realized that he had stopped before the door so the shadow of his feet would not be visible to whomever was inside.

Sherlock half-turned toward her with his finger on his lips. She nodded. Silently he mouthed "one—two—"

Just as Sherlock mouthed "three" and kicked the door open, Molly suddenly heard an out-of-place sound coming from the bathroom. A very familiar high-pitched whine. _Bone saw?_ Why would-?

The next couple of events happened almost too quickly to process. Through the open door she caught a glimpse of John, in the bathtub, head awkwardly slumped to the side, lips blue, a flash of pale skin from a bare shoulder. Gasping, Molly took half a step forward and swiveled her heard to find the source of the whining noise, just in time to see a woman with short blond hair hiding behind the door, face contorted into a snarl, bone saw held above her head like an ax. Then the saw swung down in an arc toward Sherlock, who Molly could see was looking wide-eyed at John and hadn't spotted the danger yet.

"Sherlock, watch out!" she shouted, but too late. Sherlock turned, gun raised, just as the saw came down and impacted his arm below the elbow. She heard a strangled cry, then a shot that nearly deafened her. A section of pink wall tile shattered from the bullet, which had missed its target cleanly, and the gun fell from Sherlock's hand and clattered across the floor. Bright red blood spurted from his arm—arterial spray, Molly's brain supplied helpfully.

She watched numbly as the saw swung upward, blood flying against the walls and spattering Molly in the face. The woman took a step forward and prepared to swing again; this time the saw was aimed toward Sherlock's head.

With a savage cry, Molly darted forward and swung the fry pan like a cricket bat. She was aiming for the head, and this time she didn't miss. The fry pan connected with the woman's skull with a solid _thunk_ and down she went. The bone saw fell from her hand and hit the floor but didn't shut off, the blade skipping and screeching on the lino like a wounded animal. Then the deadman switch finally kicked in and the noise cut out, leaving a deafening silence.

Molly dropped the pan and scrambled toward Sherlock, who had sat down on the floor with his left hand gripping his right arm. Blood squirted through his fingers.

She dropped to her knees in front of him. "Sherlock—Oh, God. . ." He just blinked at her, his breath coming too fast and harsh through his mouth. Frantically Molly fumbled her phone out of her pocket and dialed 999. As soon as it started ringing, she punched the speaker button, dropped the phone on the floor and put her hands over Sherlock's to apply pressure to the wound. Oh, God, there was so much blood.

"999, what is the nature of the emergency?" came a man's voice from the phone.

"Medical emergency!" Molly shouted, not able to stop an edge of hysteria from creeping into her voice. "I need an ambulance and police immediately!"

"John!" Sherlock gasped at her. "Help John!"

"Sherlock, I don't even know if he's—"

"He's alive! If he were dead she would have cut him up already!"

"Ok, yes, but first triage. We stop the bleeding, then I need your help to get John out of the bath."

"My scarf. Tie my scarf around my arm."

"Good idea." She grabbed the scarf, wrapped it around his bicep and pulled it as tight as she could. As she did so, she became aware that the 999 operator was shouting at her through the phone.

"Ma'am, are you in immediate danger?"

"No, I'm OK, it's not me!" she cried. "Send an aid car quickly please! Better yet, send two!"

"Can you tell me what's happening?"

"No time! Just come!"

"All right, ma'am, I've dispatched medical and police. They should be arriving soon. Please stay on the line."

Molly moved to pick up the phone, but Sherlock barked at her, "Leave it. Help John!" So she left the phone where it lay on the floor and stood, trying to hold back the bubble of panic that was rising in her throat. Blood was still dripping steadily from Sherlock's arm despite their makeshift tourniquet. It was oozing now, not gushing, but it was still too fast. Despite her stern protests to the contrary, her mind was calculating how quickly he would bleed out vs. how long it might take for the ambulance to arrive.

Sherlock struggled to his feet beside her. When she put a hand under his elbow to steady him, he leaned into it and let her help him over to the tub. John was only in his pants, completely limp, and his skin had an alarming grayish cast to it. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Molly spotted traces of sick on his bare chest and a yellowish pool of it in the bath underneath him.

Frantically, Molly pressed her shaking fingers to John's carotid artery, transferring a crimson smear of Sherlock's blood to the skin under his jaw. It took several seconds of agonizing waiting before she felt a sluggish heartbeat, and then finally another.

"He's alive, Molly," Sherlock said impatiently. "Dead men don't sweat. Let's get him out." He grabbed John's bare leg in his blood-soaked left hand and looked up at her. He may have been calm on the surface, but she spotted of hint of panic in his eyes.

Molly nodded and slid her arms under John's shoulders. "On three." When she counted it off, together they lifted John's limp body up and over the side of the bath onto the floor. Sherlock dropped to his knees gracelessly next to him with a disturbing thud.

Molly pressed her fingers to John's neck again, and this time found that his heart was racing far too fast and arrhythmically. First bradycardia, and now tachycardia.

"What did you find?" Sherlock demanded.

"Tachycardia. A minute ago it was far too slow, and now it's much too fast."

"Aconite poisoning. All the symptoms fit. He's near cardiac arrest." Sherlock's voice was clipped and clinical, but the expression on his face was anything but detached. He looked as terrified as Molly felt.

Tipping John's head back, Molly watched and listened for a breath but found nothing. "I need to start CPR. Can you move back?"

"You do the compressions, I'll do the breathing," Sherlock said abruptly, scooting back a bit to let her pass.

"Sherlock, you can't—"

"Yes, I can."

So Molly sidled past him and let him move into position. When he was ready, she locked her elbows and started in on compressions, feeling John's ribs crack under the pressure from her palms. She counted off as she pressed down, and Sherlock gave a breath at the right time. Molly tried to quell her anxiety over the pool of blood that was growing on the floor beneath his arm.

After only a couple of minutes, Molly's arms and shoulders were aching, but she completely ignored them as her world narrowed to the small section of John's chest, her rhythmic counting, and the sound of Sherlock breathing for his friend.

Suddenly a horrible, familiar noise cut through the quiet—the whine of the bone saw starting up again. Molly saw a swift movement out of the corner of her eye. Before could raise the alarm, Sherlock suddenly had the gun in his hand, and almost without breaking rhythm on the breathing, he raised his arm and fired. There was a thud and the bone saw hit the floor again and cut out. The gun clattered to the floor again, and almost immediately Sherlock followed it, collapsing into a boneless heap half on top of John.

"Sherlock!" Molly screeched, her cry echoing off the hard tile walls over the reverberations of the shot. As the echoes died away, Molly finally heard the wail of a siren in the distance.


	22. I've got you

**A/N: Oh, good grief, this chapter is like "blah blah blah." So much talking! I hope you don't get sick of it. This is the last chapter, so the torture is almost over, my friends.**

* * *

**Chapter 22: I've got you**

* * *

_Hands grabbing him, pinching him. Small hands with sharp fingernails painted bubble-gum pink. A girl's voice hisses in his ear. "I hate you. I wish you'd never been born." The hands shove him into a small dark space filled with shoes and coats. He hears the click of a lock. DON'T LEAVE ME HERE! He screams but hears only childish laughter in response. Something in the small space is beeping._

* * *

John slowly became aware of other sensations. The hiss of an oxygen machine. Antiseptic smell. The firm pressure of a hand holding his. A voice—Sherlock's voice—speaking quietly. John could only make out a few words, but they didn't make sense to his sleep-addled mind. Something about a tooth? Before he could puzzle it out, he slipped into darkness again.

* * *

_The yellow house. Enormous front door. He reaches up and turns the knob, and this time it opens with a creak. Inside everything is completely tidy, not a speck of dirt. He can hear voices screaming, fighting. A hand grabs his arm and yanks him off his feet. He can't see the face but he knows who it is. A voice hisses at him "You came in here with dirty shoes!" and then a shriek: "Mummy! The little rat got the floor filthy!" He panics and tries to get away but the fingernails dig into his arm and hold him fast._

* * *

Beeping again, overlaid with quiet voices. Sherlock, and. . . Molly? talking too quietly for him to understand the words; he could just hear the murmur of their voices, like music. His eyelids felt like they were glued shut, but he managed to open them enough to get an impression of his surroundings. A dark blob, two heads. Molly, sitting on Sherlock's lap? A high-pitched giggle, then a deeper laugh. John decided he was still dreaming.

* * *

_Drowning. A hand on his head pushing him down. Through the water he sees a glimpse of a blue polka-dotted swim suit and a distorted image of a girl's face, framed by short blond hair. He now has a name to go with that face. Sylvia._

_Then the face disappears and he feels strong hands lifting him up, cradling him close. Kind eyes, a gentle voice: "I've got you. You're safe now."_

_Daddy. . ._

* * *

This time it was the delicate scent of perfume that hit him first. Pears. Mary? He cracked open his eyes a little and caught a glimpse of her blond ponytail. Her head was bent over a book and she didn't look up. Had she forgiven him? His last thought before he lost consciousness again was that he hoped she wasn't upset about him missing their date.

* * *

_Men in white coats surround him. Masks over their faces. Doctors. One of the masks has a clown face drawn on it in red marker. He fights them but he is too small. They hold him down. Sudden pain from a needle in his arm. His blood flows into a tube._

* * *

The next time he became aware of his surroundings, he heard two voices: Sherlock's and a woman's, vaguely familiar but his brain was too fuzzy to work out who it was. The woman was saying, "He was a lovely boy. We don't know why he left." and then Sherlock responded in a voice that was too quiet for John to make out the words.

John opened his eyes to slits, the most he could manage, and through his sleep-sticky lashes he could see the outline of Sherlock standing next to the bed. John spotted a dark blue triangle of fabric across his chest—a sling? Why would Sherlock have his arm in a sling?

"We had him over to dinner just before he disappeared. Everything was fine," the woman said querulously.

"Just him?"

"Yes, we loved him." The woman—Mrs Paddington?—sounded defensive. "It was like having our boys back. . ."

That was the last John heard before his eyes slid shut and he slipped into unconsciousness again.

* * *

_Waves wash over him, covering his head and filling his mouth with salt that burns and chokes him. Something falls from his hand, something important. Suddenly strong hands pull him up. Through a haze of salt and sand he sees kind brown eyes and a sad smile. "You're safe, I've got you."_

_Daddy. . ._

_He is carried to the beach where a woman with a beautiful dimpled smile wraps him in a green striped blanket. The strong arms pick him up again and carry him away, away from the sister who hurts him, away from the parents who ignore him. He doesn't even mind that they are carrying him away from the thing he dropped, the talisman that kept him safe. He doesn't need it anymore._

* * *

Beeping again, slow and insistent. John realized now that it was a heart monitor, so he was in hospital. Yes, that made sense, considering that his last memory was of everything going numb and realizing he had been poisoned. And possibly vomiting. There was a sour taste in his mouth, so yes, he had probably vomited. His head hurt, but otherwise he felt fairly intact. He started wiggling fingers and toes to see if they were working again.

Both sets of toes and the fingers on his right hand moved just fine, but he discovered that he was unable to move his left hand. The beeping from the heart monitor picked up speed a bit as he fought down a wave of panic. He was left-handed; if his left hand didn't work, he would be unable to write, unable to do his job, unable to—he lifted his head enough to look down at his arm, and discovered that is was covered by a blurry dark shape. What was it?

Carefully he disentangled his right hand from the IV tube and reached over to feel the shape. It felt. . . hairy? He blinked until his vision cleared and looked again. This time the shape resolved itself into Sherlock's head, lying across his arm.

"Sherlock?" he tried, but it came out as a raspy whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Sherlock?" Even though his voice was stronger, Sherlock still didn't move. John shoved at Sherlock's head with his right hand. "Wake up!"

Sherlock gave a grunt but stayed draped over John's arm. "Huhn?" he mumbled drowsily.

"Get off my arm, you big oaf."

Sherlock finally lifted his head and blinked sleepily at John. "You're awake."

"Yes, obviously."

Sherlock grinned at him. "You're awake," he repeated happily.

John grinned back. "Yes, thirsty as hell with a killer headache, but I'm awake."

"Oh, thirsty, yes." When Sherlock stood up, John realized that his right arm was indeed in a sling. One handed, Sherlock poured some water from a pink pitcher on the side table and handed John the cup, which he had to take with his right hand because his left was still numb.

After John took a drink, he said, "What happened to your arm?"

"Oh, this?" Sherlock lifted the sling. "Bone saw!" he said proudly.

"B—bone saw?"

"Yes! It took 142 external stitches and 76 internal stitches. Do you want to see?"

"Um, sure."

Sherlock settled on his hip on the side of the bed. Loosening loosened the sling, he pulled down the bandage enough to show John the straight line of stitches that started at the inside of his elbow and extended diagonally down across his lower arm. "It hit the brachial artery. I nearly bled out," he said enthusiastically. "Not deep enough to sever the bone, however." Sherlock sounded almost disappointed at this fact, which made John smirk. "Pity I wasn't awake to watch them stitch it up. Molly said she could see all the layers of muscle and tendon clear down to the bone."

"How did that happen?"

"Oh, um. . ." Sherlock didn't make eye contact while he moved back to the chair and took his time to readjust the bandage and sling. "Well. . ."

"Spill it."

"It was your sister."

"What?"

"Sylvia Paddington. She was going to cut you up to dispose of your body. Molly and I got there just in time."

"Oh my God. . ."

"God had little to do with it. Why did you go there?"

"I needed to know more, about my family. I didn't understand the way I was feeling."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock demanded.

"I didn't want the complications."

"Complications of telling me? I don't make things more complicated."

"Yes, you do. Although in this case, I suppose you were actually right."

"Yes, I was." Sherlock sat back and tried to fold his arms smugly across his chest, but couldn't quite manage it because of the sling. "Although I didn't actually know either. I didn't do a background check on the sister until after I realized where you had gone."

"Oh? What did you find?"

"She was engaged once, about ten years ago, but her fiancé disappeared a couple of weeks before the wedding. Her parents say everything was fine. They even had him over to dinner the night before he disappeared. They are convinced he ran off for some unknown reason, but I'm positive she killed him. The thing I haven't worked out is why."

"The parents had the fiancé over for dinner?"

"Yes, just him. They say they adored him and it was like having their son back. Then the next day he was gone."

"Oh."

"Oh? What?"

"Sylvia told me. . . she told me she had tried to kill me in Abersoch. She tried to drown me. She was jealous of Adam and me because we took her parents' attention away from her. She thought if we were gone, her parents would pay attention to her. If the parents were getting too close to the fiancé. . ."

"Then she got rid of her rival for the parents' affections, as she saw him. Makes sense."

"In what crazy world does it make sense to murder your fiancé because your parents like him?!"

"Her mind was twisted, obviously. Lestrade found a tooth in a box under her bed. Scrubbed clean, of course, but there was a bit of DNA inside. I'm sure it will be a match to the missing fiancé."

"Where is she now? Prison?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Dead. I shot her. Well, after Molly brained her with a fry pan."

"I can't say I'm sorry about that. I've remembered a few other things she did to me as well. Pinching and hitting me. Locking me in a closet. I think. . ."

"What?" Sherlock prompted.

"I think I did it on purpose. When my dad pulled me out of the water, I saw it as my chance to escape. I wanted a new family."

"You made a wise decision."

"Yeah, I was smarter at age three than at age 43."

"You know, John, those death certificates are buried in a file in arse-end-of-nowhere Abersoch, Wales. They can easily stay buried."

"What about Mrs Paddington? She's not likely to let this go."

"Oh, I think I've got her convinced to leave you alone." The look in Sherlock's eyes was positively feral. "And if she comes after you again, we can sic Mycroft on her." John chuckled, and after a second the corner of Sherlock's lip quirked up as well. "So you can decide. What do you want?"

"I think I'll be a Watson. None of them have ever tried to kill me. Although I'm sure Harry has thought about it from time to time. . ."

Sherlock's half-smile turned into a full grin. "That's good. I wouldn't want to have to remember a different name."

John snorted and shook his head. "That's about what I expected."

"I am what I am."

"And God help me, I love you anyway."

"As it should be."

"Sherlock, I'm truly sorry for being such an arse the past few months. And don't say you deserved it, because you didn't. I shouldn't have treated you that way, no matter what I was going through."

"You didn't mean it. You weren't yourself. Obviously."

"Oh, God, you're right. Can you imagine what I would have been like if I had been raised in that family?"

"So you're fortunate you weren't."

"I'll have to tell my parents that. The Watsons, I mean. Have you called them?"

"Molly did. I was mostly. . . indisposed."

"Indisposed?"

"Unconscious." Sherlock clarified.

"Ah. What did they say? Are they coming to see me?"

"They wanted to, but she told them to wait until you woke up. You can take the next step on that yourself."

"All right, I will."

There was a short silence, during which Sherlock stuck his left hand in his pocket. He looked as if he were having some sort of fight with himself about something. Finally he said, "I have something for you." He pulled something small and red out of his pocket and held it hidden in his hand for a second before carefully setting it on the rolling tray in front of John. A toy fire truck? Oh. . . Not just any fire truck, _his_ fire truck, with a yellow stripe down the side. The thing he had been holding in his hand on the beach. He could see it clearly now. John picked it up and turned it over in his hand, rubbed his thumb over the letters scratched in the paint.

"Where did you. . .?"

"Abersoch police station, in the evidence box. I had Molly go and fetch it for you. It's yours. It only seems right that you should have it."

"I remember this. I loved this little fire truck."

"It's good? I mean, you want it?" There was something lurking in Sherlock's eyes—anxiety, John realized. Sherlock was anxious. "I wasn't—I mean, Molly wasn't sure if we should give it to you."

"Yes. Thank you."

"Good." Sherlock looked relieved. John chewed on his lip and watched Sherlock's face. Whatever had happened to Sherlock while he was dead, it had changed him, and not necessarily for the better. The bravado and arrogance were still there, but now it seemed to be mostly bluster. Some of the rock-solid certainty that had underpinned it had eroded away and he seemed vulnerable. Fragile. Something had happened while he was dead that had stolen his confidence. It hurt John to think of Sherlock being in pain and not sharing it with him.

"Sherlock," John said carefully, "We have to talk, really talk. You have to tell me more about what happened to you while you were away."

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. I need to know. It will help me understand you better if I know what you went through."

Sherlock was suddenly staring at his hands, and John was convinced he would just blow him off again. Finally he said, in a quiet voice, "I missed you so much."

"You did?"

Sherlock nodded without looking up. "Yes, just ask Molly. I talked about you constantly, drove her crazy asking what you were doing, having her keep tabs on you."

"I wondered why she kept calling me. Thought maybe she fancied me. But when I asked her out, she turned me down."

Now Sherlock looked up, eyes wide. "Really? You asked her out?"

"Yes. She didn't tell you?"

"Erm, no."

"Well, she wouldn't go out with me, because she was too busy being infatuated with an oblivious git. How did your date go, by the way? Before it was interrupted, I mean."

"Oh, well. . ."

"And what took you so long to respond to my text for help?"

"You texted me 'he'!"

"I would have thought you could figure that out."

"I was busy," he muttered.

"Doing what?"

Sherlock coughed, then mumbled something John couldn't catch.

"What did you say?"

"Snogging Molly."

"NO!"

"Yes."

"It's about time!"

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading my horribly loooooong story. At least I accomplished my goal of having the whole thing done and posted before New Years! Have a happy 2014, everyone. And for all the UK Sherlock fans, I am totally jealous that you get to watch the season premiere over two weeks before we do here in the states.**


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